


The Masochism Tango

by KLaxAddict, The-Clairvoyant-Rick (MajixTrixx)



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Bloodplay, Choking, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Established Sexual Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Exhibitionism, Inappropriate Use of Family Text Message Plans, Incest, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochist Morty, Porn With Plot, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sadist Rick, Slight Subdrop, Smoking, Switch Rick, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 50,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLaxAddict/pseuds/KLaxAddict, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajixTrixx/pseuds/The-Clairvoyant-Rick
Summary: Rick and Morty have been having sex, great sex, for a few months now. It’s fun, easy, and a good way to relieve stress as well as help Morty build up some confidence.But one night a previously unexplored side of their compatibility comes barreling into the light, and they’re left to struggle with the fallout and what it might mean for their relationship.





	1. The Deep End

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are lovely sinners! The day has finally arrived (a few hours later than we actually said it'd be) but we're finally introducing our baby to the world! It's been a journey, certainly. One that's not even close to being finished. We've got so much more in store for you and we can't wait to see how the first leg of our journey is received! Anyone that's ever said sexual frustration isn't a hell of a motivator can eat their own words while they indulge in this tasty treat(;
> 
> Big thanks to LadyNyoko, Left-Handed-Rick and Squikkums for editing our first chapter! The beta process wouldn't have gonna nearly as well without the three of you. 
> 
> So, without further ado, we proudly present, The Masochism Tango! 
> 
> Xoxo, Clair & KLax

Nervousness radiates from every inch of Morty's body as he approaches the door to Rick's bedroom with painstaking slowness. He shouldn't be nearly as anxious as he is, shouldn't be feeling like his heart is going a million miles an hour inside his chest, but Morty can’t help it.

Up until this point, he's never approached Rick sexually.

In the entirety of their weird, unspoken relationship, Rick has always been the one to come to him first. Rick is always the one that offers him a choice, always the one who notices how jumpy and horny he is, always the one who decides to do something about it. Never the other way around.

Which usually isn’t an issue.

Morty likes not having to lead. There’s something freeing about letting Rick take over so he doesn’t have to get all sorts of worked up. And normally, with the active and exploratory sex life they share, he never has to wait very long for Rick to make a move. Usually all it takes is a little subtle squirming and some longing glances with those big, green puppy dog eyes that always seem to draw Rick's attention to him but now... Now Rick is just being stubborn.

They haven't fucked around since he got his ass paddled on Helion Prime until he was crying and begging to come in Rick's hand. That’d been nearly two weeks ago. He's dropped plenty of hints since then, some of them more akin to what he was used to and some of them new and a little beyond his comfort zone, but Rick hasn't responded to either and Morty is starting to get desperate for the older man's touch.

Morty gulps as he finally reaches the door. It feels intimidating from where he’s standing, large and imposing, obviously shut against the rest of the house. Morty's dick is more than insistent though, so without letting himself think about it, the teen finds himself reaching out to let himself in. Heart inside his throat, beating away and making it harder than ever for him to swallow or even breathe, Morty takes a couple steps forward and shuts the door behind him before immediately starting to wring his hands together.

"H-hey, uh, Rick? Are you, umm, are you busy?"

Rick is lying on his back on the cot in his room, playing idly with a busted matter converter. He's not busy really, if anything he's bored out of his skull. He's been avoiding the garage, the living room, pretty much anywhere it would be easy for Morty to corner him and stutter out his sledgehammer-subtle flirtations.

He turns the converter in his hands, pretending to frown at the casing while sneaking a glance at his watch. Eleven days and just under seventeen hours until Morty finally grew the balls to confront him on his own turf. Not bad, considering he'd warned the teen against touching himself after the last time he'd walked in on Morty with half his own fist up his ass, moaning Rick's name. Accept no substitutions.

Now, if the little shit could just work up the nerve to ask for what he wants in the right way, they'll be in business. It's about damn time too. Rick’s passed up two fucking adventures that would have made him a bundle of cash this week, all because Morty can't get his head together enough to ask for what he needs.

Not looking up from the useless trinket in his hands, he snaps at the figure in the doorway.

“I'm always busy, Morty. Wh-Who do you think I am, your fucking dad?”

The teen winces, but it's not from Rick's harsh tone or the easy jab at Jerry. Rick can clearly see the tightening in his pants and see the hitch in his breath, and knows it's from the memory he's deliberately alluding to.

_Morty's face is buried in his arms, his fists close to tearing holes in the sheets beneath him. Rick has been teasing him for the better part of an hour, his fingers slowly rubbing careful circles in his ass, meticulously avoiding pressure on the one spot that will make Morty scream with relief._

_His voice is muffled as it shakes its way from his throat._

_“F-fuck me, Rick. Please!”_

_“Uh-uh, babe. You know what I want to hear. C-come on, you agreed.” Rick gently strokes a single finger, feather light, across his prostate, and Morty breaks._

_“Fuck! Fuck me Daddy, Daddy, please, I -- I need it, I n-need your cock, please Daddy I can't t-take it-”_

Rick hides a smirk as he drops the converter on the cot and swings to his feet, stretching nonchalantly. Morty's blushing, but it's a good reminder of what he can get from Rick when he asks for things  _nicely_.

“Well Morty, what do you want?”

All forms of thought quickly start to abandon Morty's brain in favor of following his blood down south as  he watches Rick stand from his bed. The brunet was already somewhat aroused just from being in Rick's room and all the memories associated with that, but it gets so much worse when he’s suddenly faced with the impressively full height of Rick's towering presence. Morty doesn’t know how Rick manages to do it. The older man isn’t even doing anything and he still manages to look large and in-charge despite being skinny as a rail and well on his way to intoxicated.

Awkwardness flows through Morty like a river as Rick looms over him, clearly waiting for an answer, but the words won’t come. He’s too nervous, unsure of what to say, and even though he's practiced it no less than ten times back up in his room, Morty can tell that Rick is getting impatient and that makes it so much harder to get a grip.

Eventually though, after watching Rick's brow furrow and his snickering grin morph into an annoyed semi-frown, Morty makes a genuine effort to find his own spine and speak up.

"Well I uhh, I just wanted t-to, umm.."

The teen momentarily trails off, mentally flogging himself for his inability say what’s actually on his mind, but, when he glances up and catches sight of a well disguised glint of patience in Rick's eyes, he finally finds his voice once more.

"It's just, we haven't..." Morty makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand, "Y'know, done anything or gone adventuring for a while a-a-and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to umm, y'know, maybe do something. Together."

Morty’s blush darkens a few shades and he forces himself to glance bashfully at Rick through the dark fan of his lashes, hoping his sadist of a grandfather won’t make him spell it out.

Rick hesitates a second or two, enjoying Morty's obvious discomfort. He could make the little shit spell it out for him, but this game is wearing on his patience already. Pushing is good, pushing is necessary, but he has to give a little once in awhile. There will be time in the future to make Morty articulate exactly what he wants with excruciating clarity.

Plastering a bright, shiny grin over his face, Rick is suddenly all cheer and good humor without a trace of the dark mood he'd been projecting a moment ago.

“Well sure, Morty. All you had to do was ask!”

He turns around and starts to dig for a box under the cot, chattering the whole time.

“There's a rock festival on Blarfacks-9 that's the fucking tops! It's been going non-stop for 47 years, we eve- your grandpa even played it a ways back. And they gave me… this!”

Triumphantly standing, he brandishes a dusty VIP pass and hits the button on its front. A hologram pops up and hovers above it, showing a massive circus tent surrounded by a tiny, undulating crowd.

“Y-you heard of glamping, Morty? Well that's some bourgie bullshit compared to this. VIP all-access, all the best liquor and drugs you can handle, the hottest babes in seven star systems, and a motherfucking chocolate fountain! Hey-o!”

If Morty seems thrown by Rick’s sudden 180 he doesn’t exactly show it, still caught up in his grandfather's obvious enthusiasm. Rick lets the pass dangle casually from his fingers as the teen steps forward and reaches for it, grinning. No sooner than Morty’s fingers have made contact, Rick's fingers suddenly wrap around his wrist like the vines of a carnivorous plant, his voice low and urgent.

“Or, if you prefer, I could tie you to my cot and set every nerve in your skin on fire until you forget your own name.” Rick's eyes are predatory with lust, and Morty imagines he can see a hint of teeth in the smile that had been so open and inviting only a moment ago.

“Is that more what you had in mind, Morty?”

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the hand releases, leaving Morty reeling for balance on his own two feet.

Rick's hands slide into the pockets of his lab coat, the picture of ease.

“Your choice.”

There it is. _His_ choice.

Morty's breathing speeds up, his pupils blowing wide with arousal.

There were so few times in his life where Morty was genuinely offered control of a situation. Rick calls the shots. Rick decides where they go and what they do. Even when his world doesn’t revolve around Rick, the anxiety that's plagued Morty for most of his existence keeps him from doing what he really wants in his "everyday" life. But here... Here he’s free to choose whatever he wants. That alone has Morty's eyelids falling half mast.

The rock festival sounds like a dream come true. Though Morty isn’t much of a drinker by any means, he can’t possibly deny the temptation of good music and hot alien babes. Not to mention the fact that, wherever Rick goes, excitement inevitably follows. He’d be a fool to pass up a VIP all-access pass to a rock concert that was still going strong after 47 years.

But Morty already knows what he'll choose.

Even though he’s calling himself a fucking idiot for even entertaining the idea of passing up an adventure that doesn't involve killing, stealing, or running for his life, he knows he’ll pass on it and take Rick's second option.

Morty just can’t help himself.

He can't stop being drawn to the rough promise of pleasure in Rick's voice any more than a passing comet can stop itself from being burned up in the grasp of a far reaching solar flare. He can’t stop the way that hint of the unknown twists up his insides, making him feel like he no longer fits inside his own skin. He can’t stop the way his focus shifts to the sudden twinge in his groin and the heat in his cheeks and all Morty can think about is _want_.

Taking an unconscious step toward Rick, who somehow manages to look so goddamn cool and collected, Morty's lips part in a shaky exhale. The potential enjoyment of a non-stop party with drugs, alcohol, and alien jams doesn’t hold a candle to the blinding heat of Rick's undivided attention. Nothing does. There’s nothing in the entire multiverse that compares to the way it makes Morty feel to have Rick's focus on him, looking at him like an overly interesting project, like he’s worth more than his brainwaves, and Morty finds himself more hopelessly addicted to that desire than ever.

Especially when it’s right in front of him for the taking.

All he has to do is reach out and take it.

Morty takes another step forward and reaches out to grab the lapel of Rick's lab coat. The material alone sends a shiver down the boy’s spine and, when he looks up at Rick, taking in the utter lack of surprise on his grandpa's features when he reaches for the man rather than the pass, a new level of heat floods through Morty's frame.

"Th-the second one." He whispers, his tone somewhat choked and laced with more embarrassment than he would've liked.

God, he feels awkward. He feels like he should say something else, but what was he supposed to say?

_Ravage me, Rick. Fuck my brains out like you hate me. Do whatever you want to me, just look at me like I'm worth something._

Morty barely manages to conceal the way he cringes internally at his own thoughts and the clingy, shameful nature of them. He doesn’t even try to imagine the way Rick might react if he caught wind of his need to be acknowledged. Though, knowing Rick, the man probably already knew.

He forcibly shoves those thoughts away, sinking back into the present.

"I want you to -- to fuck me, Rick." He says instead, his cheeks heating up even more. "W-whatever you want."

Gazing down at the boy hanging off his front, Rick raises a hand towards his chest. Morty nearly jumps out of his skin as it passes him, but he makes no attempt to hide the blatant disappointment on his face when it reaches past him towards Rick's flask.

Rick keeps his face noncommittal as he takes a deep swig, staring deeply at Morty's face, the teen’s eyes averting to avoid the intense scrutiny.

“Whatever I want.” Rick repeats flatly, returning the flask to its resting place.

That would almost be a tempting offer if Morty's embarrassment and inability to articulate anything but the bare minimum of what he’s supposedly asking for didn’t prove that he doesn’t know what the hell he's actually offering. It's fucking dangerous, really. Somebody might take him up on it one day. But more importantly, it’s also not the point of this little exercise.

“N-nice try, Morty.”

The look of fear and desperation that flashes across Morty's face is sickly gratifying, but Rick stifles it quickly. No need to send the kid into a panic attack over a minor misunderstanding. Running a hand through Morty's hair, he leans down and speaks in a low, soothing tone into his ear, “That's not what this is about, you know that.”

Relaxing Morty's death grip on his coat, Rick continues to pet him and gentle him like a nervous horse. “I -- I _want_ a hangover cure that works on Viklexian Gin.”

“I want Jerry to stop using the word 'hashtag' in sentences.” Morty snorts slightly at that, torn between leaning into the hand Rick has on his head or pressing against the one wrapped lightly around his hip. Rick helps him choose, rubbing small circles into the boy's hipbone and smirking slightly at the tiny moan Morty stifles at the sensation.

“I want a method of time travel that's not more of a pain in the ass than it's worth.”

Smiling now, he drops his hand from Morty's hair to tip his chin up towards him, finally seeing that too-open, adoring gaze full on.

Which is when he hooks Morty's ankle and presses down on his hip, easily tripping the teen and sending him flailing backwards onto the cot. Before he can regain his composure, Rick is towering over him, caging awkwardly sprawling limbs with menacing intent and hot breath.

“This has always been about what _you_ want, Morty.” Rick nips at the the teen's neck, taking the ensuing yelp as confirmation he has his full attention. “And if you want to get railed on a stained old camping cot by your Grandpa Rick instead of partying with supermodels, I'm happy to oblige you.”

With that, he strips Morty with brutal efficiency. Rick’s hands and breath leave trails of heat and pressure everywhere they can, but he avoids touching bare skin other than where absolutely necessary.

Once the boy is naked, he crosses Morty's arms at the wrist and holds them above his head with one hand. Pulling a pair of zip-ties from his coat, he wraps one around Morty's wrists and leans down to tighten it with his teeth.

“You know how these work, Morty. Struggling just makes them tighter, and I'm not taking them off until we're done, s-so keep the thrashing to a minimum.”

The other zip-tie wraps around the aluminum frame of the cot itself and hooks into the one binding Morty's wrists. The resulting view is something else. Morty's arms are stretched above him, but there’s enough give to flip him any way Rick might decide he wants. He's still short enough his feet don't reach the bottom of the cot, though he's currently got his knees tucked up to his navel in a manner that's probably meant to hide his erection and preserve some fading sense of modesty, but the position just serves to make him look small and defenseless.

Pleased with his work, Rick pulls two short, fat cylinders from the pocket of his coat and holds them up for Morty's approval. One is pure white and the other a pale gold. It takes a moment for Morty's brain to catch up and identify them as candles.

“As a little reminder that this is about what you ask for, I _will_ fuck that tight little ass of yours, but you're not gonna get to come until I've melted both of these _all_ over you.”

Rick takes a piece of orange paper from the depths of his coat and snaps his fingers against it, instantly igniting it into a bright green flame. He sets fire to the wicks and places the candles on the table above Morty's head, just out of sight.

“So Morty, we've got a few minutes before those burn down enough to get started. You wanna try some of those 'I Want' statements again?”

Morty ignores Rick's invitation to speak up for the moment, carefully testing the zip ties around his wrists and gently tugging against their hold to figure out his range of motion. The sturdy plastic doesn't give an inch. It just bites into the sensitive skin around his wrists, tightening a fraction like Rick said it would, and the sensation leaves Morty more excited than he'd initially expected.

Turning his head to the side with a quiet moan, Morty captures his bottom lip between his teeth and starts to worry the supple flesh. It feels uniquely good to be trapped. Morty likes knowing that he can’t escape without either Rick's say-so or the use of his safeword -- a precaution they established surprisingly early on and Morty still hasn’t had the opportunity to exercise. The idea of being so easily held to Rick's bed in particular has the steady rise and fall of his chest picking up speed. When both candles enter his line of sight again though, it isn’t just his breathing that’s affected.

The muscles in Morty's abdomen instinctively clench and he moans once more at the tightness it causes in the area surrounding his groin. There’s no way that Rick isn’t able to see how turned on and eager he is just by the mere idea of having hot wax poured all over him, not when his dick is betraying him so spectacularly by reaching near full hardness before he's even uttered a single one of his desires.

Sensing that his failed attempt at preserving his modesty is even less of a success than usual, Morty straightens his legs and lets them slide down the bed until they’re fully extended. The partially rough material of Rick's cot against his calves and the backs of his thighs feels surprisingly good and Morty doesn't hesitate to shift his legs experimentally against it, trying not to pant when the sensation just makes him that much more excited.

Morty lolls his head back towards Rick and parts his lips in a shaky exhale, his tongue darting out to lick at them uselessly as he tries to find his voice. He knows there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Rick has seen him in various stages of compromise quite a few times before and what he wants from his grandpa is nothing new, but shyness still seals his lips. It steals his voice and forces his fantasies silent, making it that much harder for him to summon his courage and do himself a favor by simply asking for what he wants.

The teen swallows and glances towards Rick, accidentally locking their gazes. Rick doesn’t look especially affected but his eyes are intense, like he can see through the brunet in front of him without even trying, and Morty quickly breaks eye contact and glances down towards Rick's lips.

The mere sight of them, thin and pink and just dry enough to be pleasant, has Morty's stomach clenching and he’s suddenly desperate for them to be on him.

"I want you t-t-to kiss me." Morty said, surprised by the huskiness of his own voice. "M-m-my lips a-and my neck and my chest... I want you to -- to umm, to bite me."

"Please, Grandpa Rick," Morty pleads, squirming a bit as the blatant reference to their relation -- their _blood relation_ \-- makes his arousal burn a couple degrees hotter. "Make it -- make it hurt."

Rick might have growled a little as the reluctant, but honest plea makes its way past Morty's lips. He's not sure, but _fuck_ that's hot. A baby masochist after his own heart. Not that he's too surprised. It's something of a family trait, and one he's done his fair share to cultivate in the kid. Technically Morty broke the rules set down at the end, but he's not going to reject a 'pretty please' to hurt him on a technicality. He's supposed to be honoring the spirit, not the letter of the law here.

At least, that's what he tells himself. The truth is, he probably couldn't resist giving into the kid on this one. That shy request already has his cock harder than half the conquests he's had in the last decade. Morty makes a hell of a picture, spread out and open like a Christmas dinner just waiting to be devoured. The teen's chest is already flushed red, and Rick can only imagine how it'll look covered in bruises and burns from the candle wax. Morty's already biting his lip, but it looks less like a nervous tick or an attempt at coquetry than a deliberate simulation of what he's asked Rick to do to him. His eyes are roving up and down Rick's frame, and while it's doing wonders for his ego, it's not exactly where he wants Morty's attentions right now.

Snagging a rag from a toolbox, Rick moves towards his grandson's bound wrists. From here, he can see Morty tugging lightly on the bonds. They're already a good deal tighter than he set them to be, digging into the flesh of the the boy’s delicate wrists. The little perv is getting off on them. Still, best not to let him get ideas.

“I've taught you how to break a zip-tie before, remember Morty?”

Morty nods, “You -- you made me practice 'til my wrists bled.”

“Damn straight I did. You know how stupid it'd be if we got captured a-and that was what did us in?”

There's no response expected, and Morty doesn't give one, distracted as Rick ties the makeshift blindfold around his head, blacking out the world.

Rick's disembodied voice hovers above his left ear. “I bring it up because you need to remember, Morty. You can get out of this at any time. You don't have to ask, or say a word, or beg me to let you go.”

The voice moves, coming to rest just in front of Morty's face. Rick grins as the boy's mouth falls open automatically, silently begging for a kiss.

“You're tied up like a good little slut because you want to be, Morty. And you're not going to break free because you fucking _love it_.”

Rick begins dotting wet, open-mouthed kisses down the boy's jaw, loving the unabashed sounds falling from Morty's mouth already. He lightly sinks his teeth into the boy's jugular and relishes the small choked sound it produces.

Greedily, Rick works his way across every inch of the boy's neck and chest, lavishing attentions on the sensitive areas and leaving behind a constellation of purpling marks. His hands remain firmly on the cot, balancing his weight.

No touching. Morty hadn't asked for that.

The muscles in Morty's stomach are fluttering, already contracting with anticipation, as he bites along the prominent ribs. His hips are rolling, desperate for Rick to keep up his southern assault, but Rick pulls away and moves back up for a bruising kiss, teeth and tongue claiming already abused lips. Morty gives as good as he gets, but he has no leverage from this position, and it feels like Rick's doing his best to give him a tonsillectomy with his tongue.

Morty’s gasping when he pulls away. Rick's hardly unaffected himself, but he keeps it out of his voice as he reaches for the white candle.

“The view doesn't hurt, but for me, tying you up is mostly so you'll squirm less like a little bitch when I do this.”

"For when you do what, Rick?" Morty asks breathlessly, relishing the phantom hints of pain throbbing away along his neck and torso.

The silence stretches on between them and Morty finds himself straining to hear, trying to figure out what Rick is going to do next. He’s just as enamored by the idea that the older man is going to swoop in any second and suddenly ravage his mouth in a flurry of painful, biting kisses as he is by the possibility that maybe Rick’s just tormenting him with bated suspense. Morty doesn't know which is the more appealing of the two but the waiting felt far more intense in combination with his inability to see. The blindfold -- though something he and Rick have messed around with once or twice in the past -- isn't something Morty is used to experiencing in combination with being tied up. Not being able to see or move his arms is far more intense than either by themselves and the fact that Rick is hovering over him but not saying or doing anything has Morty nearly going out of his mind with anticipation.

"Rick? What are you-"

The teen's sentence is cut off by a sharp and sudden gasp of startled agony as Rick tips the candle and a dollop of hot wax finally meets his skin.

_It burns._

As such, Morty's first instinct is to get away from the stinging sensation.

He tugs fruitlessly at the bonds holding him to Rick's cot out of pure instinct, giving a clipped cry when it does nothing but tighten the proverbial noose around him and force unyielding plastic deeper into his skin. Morty forces his arms to go limp above his head when his wrists throb in response, not wanting to cut off blood flow or be forced to escape them lest he suffer Rick's retaliation for doing so. But that doesn’t stop him from whining and doing basically everything else in his power to deal with the foreign sensations racing along his nerves. Morty hisses and digs his heels into the bed, his legs absolutely restless as they shift along the thin mattress, his muscles tense and held tight, as though the burning sensation would stop if he just sucked them in far enough.

Fuck, though. Morty can't even claim that he isn't into it. His cock is positively _aching_ between his legs and, since he’s been forced into hyper-awareness due to both the blindfold and the fact that another drop of wax could come at any second, Morty is painstakingly aware of every single throb emanating from his groin.

As the blissful burn finally starts to retreat, Morty finds himself longing for its return. He wants to be caked in wax, to feel that deep seated throb of angry skin and tortured nerve endings all over his body, and the teen displays as much by arching his back from the bed. He presents his chest to Rick, using his shoulders for leverage as much as he can and, when the next drop doesn't come immediately, the budding masochist groans in desperation.

"Rick..." He whines, drawing the older man's name out against his tongue. "P-please, Rick, I want more. It -- f-fuck it hurts. I need more of it."

Morty searches for Rick in the darkness, straining his eyes and his senses trying to find him even though he knows it’s impossible, but Morty feels drawn in. He feels connected to Rick and Rick alone like this and he wants to be good. He wants to do as he’s expected and be rewarded in the process, but mostly he wants greedy, self-serving gratification.

"I wanna feel it, R-Rick." Morty groans, tipping his head back and baring part of his throat in an act of submission. "I wanna feel your hands a-and your teeth and th-the -- and the wax. Please give it to me?"

Rick can tell without a shadow of a doubt that Morty's mouth is going to get him into trouble one day if he keeps saying shit like that.

“You're squirming like a fish on a hook, Morty. Lemme help you out with that.”

Swinging his leg over the supine teen and onto the cot, Rick effectively pins the thrashing boy's thighs together with his body weight. Morty groans lightly at the heat and pressure, the rough fabric of Rick's pants nearly chafing his hypersensitive skin. With a huff of amusement, Rick lets a few more drops fall along the curve of Morty's collarbone, watching the way Morty throws his head back against the cot as he simultaneously thrusts his chest up towards the source.

Damn, what a pretty sight. Giving into temptation, Rick leans down and licks a path up the mottled path of Morty's throat, digging his teeth in again just below the boy's ear.

“That's a good boy, Morty. Grandpa'll give you what you need.”

Any response Morty might have is cut off with the sounds of pain and shock that fall from his lips as Rick trails a line of wax up the exposed undersides of his arms, one after the other.

As the boy catches his breath, Rick sits back on his heels, palming himself through his pants. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, and sighs as he unzips, pulling his cock free of his underwear to stroke it a few times. Morty freezes beneath him, breathing hard. Whether he heard the zipper or just intuited what Rick's doing is debatable.

“Fuck, babe,” Rick groans, fisting his cock a little harder to put on a show for the blind audience beneath him. “There's nothing hotter than a filthy little slut who knows how to ask for what they want.”

Bending down, Rick teases lightly at one of Morty's nipples with his tongue, relishing the unbroken moans and chants for more coming above him. The kid is starting to get the idea. Rick takes the nub between his teeth and grinds it between them, adding sharp little flicks of his tongue every so often. The cry Morty makes rises half an octave in pitch as Rick dribbles a stream of wax onto his chest, dripping closer and closer until it hits directly on the teen's other nipple.

“S-Stop!”

Rick immediately relaxes his jaw and sits back, staring intently at his grandson's face. Fuck, were those _tears_ starting to form under the blindfold? The boy is shaking slightly, chin thrown back towards the ceiling as he tries to catch his breath.

Morty's cock is still taking a serious interest in the proceedings though, in fact... Oh for fuck's sake.

Rick rolled his eyes, confident he couldn't be seen. “You can't be close to coming yet, Morty. We-we've still got another whole candle to go before I fuck you.”

Actually the first candle was barely half gone, but there was no need for Morty to know that. The kid has done admirably under the circumstances so far, and Rick's patience is quickly fraying.

Humiliation pools in the pit of Morty's belly like hot lead and he whines pathetically beneath Rick's weight.

He can hear the condescending edge in Rick's tone, the exasperation slowly building toward annoyance at his lack of self control, but somehow that just makes Morty’s arousal that much worse. There’s just something about hearing Rick speak to him that way, about hearing the superiority in Rick's voice and knowing that his Grandpa could probably do better, that makes him want to squirm. It doesn’t help that, as his companion, Morty can completely invision Rick expecting better of him. It sets the teen’s nerve endings on fire more surely than the burning wax starting to cool against his skin.

Fuck, he’s _so_ close to coming.

But he can't help it.

Pain radiates through his body in low, throbbing waves and every single one of them is going straight to his cock. There was so much to focus on. Not only is there the danger factor and the certainty that he'll be in deep shit if he comes before Rick gives him permission, but there’s also the thrill of the unknown. Anything could happen and he couldn't anticipate any of it. He could be met with the burn of a fresh line of wax just as easily as he could be rewarded by the slick, soft surface of Rick's tongue or the mercilessness of his teeth. The only weapon he has is his voice, and Morty could barely wield it.

"Fuck, I'm s-sorry just.." Morty stutters, trailing off as he takes a deep breath, clenching his fists and digging the sharp, crescent moon tips of his nails into his own palm.

The flicker of self-controlled pain is enough of a distraction to keep Morty from coming right on the spot and getting himself into hot water, but Morty knows that could change at the drop of a dime if Rick wanted it to. It was a risky set of stakes, deciding whether or not to just ask for help, but the thought of doing so was mortifying beyond belief. He doesn’t want to imagine the teasing that'd inevitably follow his request, or the ridicule that'd result in his reaction to Rick's taunting barbs.

It’s a gamble, one that Morty ultimately decides to take.

He gives a shaky nod of consent and clenches in preparation, but it isn't fast enough. The moment he gives the green light to continue, Rick is trailing a long, blazing line of fiery droplets down his sternum and the soft, quivering flesh of his belly. Morty shrieks, his eyes going wide behind the blindfold, and he starts to squirm under Rick's weight as the older man continues on, his path getting slower and slower the closer he got to Morty's groin. 

The pain of the wax and the throbbing heat so close to the source of his desperation was quickly forcing Morty up against the edge. He has no way of knowing whether or not Rick will go the distance and drip wax directly on his exposed length or if he'll stop. And, though it sounds utterly agonizing, Morty is almost positive he'll come without a touch if a single drop lands on his dick.

It seems Rick is feeling merciful though because suddenly the liquid fire stops coming and a ragged, inhuman noise rips itself from Morty's throat. He isn't sure if it’s from loss or gratitude but he honestly doesn't care either way. He can feel his cock bobbing and he knows he won’t be able to take another round of the wax without bursting.

Morty chokes back a sob and starts to tremble as thick, undeniable shame tangles intimately with the arousal already flooding his veins, making him burn hotter with every beat of his slamming heart.

"Rick... _god!"_ Morty groans, his cock bobbing and slick with an embarrassing amount of pre-come.

"Fuck..." He whines to himself, squirming to no avail beneath Rick, trying not to use his arms as much as he can. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Rick, I can't..!"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Morty clenches the muscles in his stomach and tries to take back control but it’s already too far away from him. He can't take another drop without exploding and the brunet frantically admits defeat as he finally breaks down in a rushed out babble.

"Fuck, Rick. I c-c-can't. I'm gonna come. P-please! I don't want to -- to be bad. Can you -- do you have a..." Morty gulps, shame flowing through him, hot and heavy. _Fuck._ "A cock-ring? I'm -- f-fuck, I'm sorry, Rick, but I'm gonna..."

Rick blows out the candle and sets it aside. The little shit never ceases to surprise him. He'd expected Morty to come early and ruin their fun. He'd hoped Morty would ask him to pause for another breather, to take what time he needed to regain the shreds of his composure. This request was not only a first for the teen and his still developing stamina, but probably the first time he had asked Rick for something he needed during sex, clearly and entirely unprompted. And apparently what he needed was help to keep from blowing his load without being touched so Rick could _keep hurting him_.

Rick pauses a moment, sitting silently on the teen's lap. Morty is writhing with obvious embarrassment beneath him, but he doesn't want to touch or say anything that might make his excellent behavior for nothing. Oh yeah, the kid _definitely_ deserved a treat for this one. And Rick is going to give it to him.

The silent treatment is definitely helping Morty calm down, though he seems almost on the verge of hyperventilation. He’s trying to bury his face in his arm in shame, succeeding only in flaking wax from his bound limbs.

Rick reaches up and runs his fingers through the boy's hair, making quiet shushing noises. “Shhhh, it's-it's okay, Morty. It's okay. Y-You did the right thing by telling me, that's a good boy.”

Tugging at the knot on the back of the blindfold, Rick pulls it free. Morty's eyes are shining with tears and they won’t meet his gaze. Rick isn't sure if it’s from shame or if they’re still adjusting to the low light of the room.

Instinctively, the older man leans in and cups Morty's face, wiping away the tear tracks and forcing the boy to face him. Still murmuring praise and soothing nonsense, he lightly butterflies kisses across the teen's face, over and over, before finally parting Morty's lips for a deep and slow kiss. When Rick pulls away, Morty's breathing is shallow and his eyes are firmly fixed on him.

Reluctant to break the intensity of Morty's gaze, but not wanting to lose sight of his plan, Rick keeps talking as he climbs off the cot to rummage through a drawer beside it.

“Such a good boy, Morty. You knew what you needed and you told me. Of course I'll give it to you. You ask so nicely, how can I not-”

Cutting himself off as he starts to veer towards dangerous or sentimental territory, Rick triumphantly holds up a small green mass of putty. As Rick walks back towards the cot, Morty's eyes are no longer fixed on his face, but the prominent and not-insignificant erection hanging from his open pants.

Smirking just a bit, the kid's mouth was practically watering for Christ's sake, Rick applies the lump of gelatinous nanites to Morty's revitalized cock, watching as they snap into place around his shaft and balls and start to _pulse_.

Morty keens, his head falling back with a thump as he tries to form words.

Rick digs his fingers into the muscle of the boy's thigh to ground him as well as try to gain some of his attention. “Well Morty, do you want the blindfold back on, or do you want to see what comes next?”

Busy, riding the high of success, Morty found it harder and harder to pay attention to his surroundings as a pleasant fog crept around the edges of his thought process.

He hadn't been mocked, hadn't been teased or spoken down to. He'd been rewarded. Morty can still feel the gentle press of Rick's lips against his face. He can hear the older man's praise ringing through his ears on repeat and the teen is hungry for more. He wants to be good. He wants to obey and serve and exist for Rick's pleasure, no matter how sadistic, and the introduction of a brand new set of choices only has him falling that much deeper.

"Th-thank you, Rick." He murmurs gratefully as he rolls the option around in his muddled brain.

There were pros and cons to both but, ultimately, Morty is still hoping he can weasel his way into getting both. He has no doubt in his mind that Rick plans to take off the blindfold eventually. There _is_ a chance he won’t but Morty doesn’t count on it. Rick seems to enjoy demanding eye contact at various moments when they finally get around to fucking. Morty thinks it has less to do with any sort of romanticism and far more to do with both a deep, primal desire to have Morty know exactly who is ruining him so spectacularly and the knowledge that it embarrasses the shit out of him. And perhaps that may just be Morty's perception of him, but the teen doubts it. Rick is a possessive bastard.

Morty licks his lips, feeling like his mouth is especially dry but the brunet doesn’t mind. It’s all part of the experience after all.

"Will you leave the blindfold on until you're done with the wax?" Morty slurs as he finally speaks up, his voice surprisingly free of stutters. "I wanna watch you work but not -- not yet. I like not seeing the pain coming."

Mossy green eyes flutter shut and Morty takes a couple deep breaths, letting himself float through the foreign feeling steadily trying to envelop him before looking back up at Rick and asking, "Can I have a-another kiss, Grandpa? I promise I'll be g-good."

The kid is definitely getting greedy, asking for more as soon as Rick showed him the slightest indulgence. The urge to spoil the brat is an itch under his skin, but Rick pushes it down. Plenty of Ricks serve as warnings as to what happens when you give into a Morty's whims too often, and they’re thoroughly mocked for it. Spoiled, cocky brats and pussy-whipped Ricks are not a winning combination.

_If you give a Morty a cookie..._

“Not now, Morty.”

Rick ignores the hurt in the kid's eyes as he reties the blindfold around the teen's mess of curls. Resisting the urge to drop a kiss on his forehead, _and where the hell had that come from_ , Rick contents himself with sliding his hand down the side of Morty's head instead, pinching sharply at the cartilage of his ear and chuckling at the shocked noise it elicits.

“You know better than that. Payment up front, it-it's the fundamental rule of doing business.”

Rick digs his thumb into a particularly deep bruise he'd left on the center of Morty's throat, watching as the pained moan he tries to make becomes a stuttering cough while his breathing is hindered. Rick makes a note of the way the kid's hips stutter as he tries to breathe normally and files it away for another day. But for now...

Stripping off his own clothes as quickly and quietly as he can, Rick coaxes his voice as low and smooth as he still can after decades of high-proof abuse, murmuring down at the pliant boy beneath him.

“You gotta be a good boy for me before you get another treat, eh _chiquito_?”

Releasing the pressure on Morty's throat, Rick reaches for the second candle, still burning too brightly and giving an almost eerie golden shine to the scene it's lighting. The pale gold wax has melted down all over the table and Rick hisses quietly as he tests a drop on his arm. Nervosian beeswax burns a hell of a lot hotter than the paraffin he'd been using before, but more importantly it tingles where it lands, refusing to settle into a dull burn even as it hardens.

 _Goddamn_ it's been awhile since he's felt a rush like that. He'll have to get Morty to try it out on him one of these days. After he can teach the overeager little klutz to do it without boiling off a few layers of his skin. There's a measure of something fanged and bloody in his voice as he moves back towards his willing victim, the flickering light of the candle throwing demonic shadows into sharp relief.

_“¿Puedes comportarte para tu abuelo? Si me preguntas bien, te daré lo que necesitas.”_

Morty doesn't respond, whether because he's failed to grasp middle-school level Spanish once again or because he doesn't have a response, Rick isn't certain. Settling back into his place over Morty's thighs, Rick groans as he accidentally jostles the candle, cascading wax down his own knuckles. He gives into temptation a little more than he probably should, grinding his aching cock against Morty's bound one, reveling in the searing pain in his knuckles and the first friction he's had since they started this. _Fuuuucckkk_ that feels good. Morty made a nice call on the cock ring. Right now this view is better than any half-assed apology face-fuck for coming too soon in the festivities.

“I'll tell you what _niño,_ ” Rick pants above Morty's choked cries, “Y-you make it through the next five minutes without screaming and I'll kiss you 'til you're dizzy if that's what you- if you want me to.”

It's probably a bit mean, setting Morty a challenge he has no intention of letting him win, but he'll make it up to him later. Besides, it's good practice for him to work on not cracking like a little bitch every time some intergalactic mall cop takes a car battery to his nuts.

But truer, simpler, and more selfish than that is the fact that Rick really, _really_ wants to hear Morty scream for him.

Morty is dizzy with anticipation below Rick's body. He’s hyper aware of just how aroused his Grandpa is as well, aching with desire, and he can’t stop waiting for a new line of fire to make a home for itself somewhere along his vulnerable flesh.

In truth, the teen is doing his best to prepare himself. Even though he'd basically been trying to remain silent while Rick effectively tortured him with one of the more unconventional forms of bliss they'd experimented with, his challenge didn't seem all that bad. It certainly isn't impossible or Herculean in nature, at least it didn't seem like it, but Morty's initial opinion on that seems hasty at best just a few seconds later.

The moment Rick presumably tips the candle and starts drizzling wax over his skin once more, Morty's lips part in a silent scream of pure agony. Despite knowing that Rick would never do anything to legitimately harm him, it feels like the wax is eating through the layers of his skin, burning through him like fat beads of fiery napalm just waiting to drip along his ribs and into his chest cavity.

The sensation wasn't like anything he'd expected or built himself up for and Morty is forced to accept that he'd been woefully unprepared for the trick hiding up Rick's sleeve. Radiating waves of painful, tingling heat spear Morty like hot knives and, regardless of how unattractive it may have been, the teen can’t stop opening and closing his mouth like a gaping fish as the searing heat just continues to burn through him.

It isn't dulling, isn't getting any less intense, and Morty doesn’t know how to handle it.

And maybe that's why, when Rick starts pouring an obscene amount of the hellish shit back and forth in fat droplets across his torso in a casual zig-zag the way somebody would put icing on a fucking toaster strudel, Morty doesn’t even give a second thought to giving in and curling his toes with a high pitched scream. It’s almost an out of body sort of experience, like a small portion of his mind can't believe that he’s howling in such a way after so little, but Morty is also readily able to admit that the release of simply screaming in pain is like nothing he's ever felt before. In the controlled environment he finds himself in, where he has the ability to make it all stop if he wanted it to, where he is still the man behind the curtain holding all the keys, Morty is free to take what he needs and express himself however he wants.

The pleasure of it is absolutely dizzying.

The brunet's hips stutter up in small, jerky rolls. His cock is begging for attention, leaking pre-cum like a faucet, and he digs his nails even deeper into his hand as he tries to ride it out. When Rick finally stops pouring and the muscles in his arms and core unclench, instantly going limp seconds later, he can feel his dick twitching where it rests against his pelvis.

"Rick..." Morty drawls aimlessly, his voice thick and rough from the screaming, drawn out like he’s high on drugs and unsure of what he wants.

Morty doesn't know what else to say though. He doesn't know what to beg for. It’s too much effort to think, the gears in his brain clogged and gummed up, unable to turn, and Morty is wholly grateful that Rick is in charge. He doesn't need to think. That’s Rick's job. He’s Rick's, Rick's canvas, Rick's fuck toy, and as long as Rick is pleased with him then he’s good.

But all of a sudden he needs to know. He needs to know if he is good, if Rick is pleased, and that’s worth thinking for.

"Rick... Am I -- am I a good boy? I tried to be quiet b-but it was just so -- just so hot."

Morty lulled his head to the side and wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth on his shoulder, feeling like that movement alone is more effort than it’s worth. Next, he unclenches his fist and sluggishly flexes his fingers, feeling like his palms are wet and sticky. He wonders, in a somewhat detached manner, if he's drawn blood.

"Do we have water?" He asks, opening his eyes to look for Rick even though he knows he won't see him. "M'so thirsty. Can I have a drink, Grandpa?"

Rick fishes for the jug of electrolyte-enhanced water he keeps under the the cot, willing himself not to make too much noise at Morty's responses. Jesus Christ he can't remember being so turned on.

Chugging from the carton's mouth, Rick wills himself to regain his composure. Morty's unabashed screams are a new sound, one he’s worried he could become unduly addicted to with little prompting. Holding a mouthful of water, he surges against Morty's mouth, pressing insistently against his lips, feeling a rush of satisfaction as the boy immediately opens against him. Pulling back against Morty's desperate lips to maintain his credibility if nothing else, Rick pulls away, gasping against empty air.

“Just try -- try harder next time, Morty.”

Ignoring the plaintive squeak beneath him, Rick sits up again, steadying himself as he reaches for the lube he keeps within arms’ reach at all times.

“I-I know you're trying, babe. You gotta scream like a bitch for now but I'll work that outta you eventually.”

Coating two of his fingers liberally in lube, Rick lets another point of wax fall on Morty's chest as he jams two fingers deep into his hole, thrusting sharp and shallow against the boy's rim. Morty responds beautifully, writhing and shrieking on his fingers while simultaneously trying to thrust up against the burn of the wax.

“It's only -- only going to get worse from here, Morty.” He warns, rubbing his fingers in small circles against the teen's rim as he steadies the candle in his definitely-not-shaking hand.

Watching the boy take a deep breath, Rick mimics him as he lets three drops of wax fall against the boy's right thigh, enjoying the screech that comes while the boy's cock spasms against its bonds. Pressing the pads of his fingers firmly against Morty's prostate, Rick lets a single drop of wax roll down the candle before landing in the crease of Morty's thigh and groin. It draws a final shriek that makes his cock twitch like a puppet master has cursed his dick, unintentionally grinding a final time against Morty's thigh.

Blowing out the candle, Rick throws it carelessly to the floor, hands shaking with anticipation. Fuck, he wants to rut into Morty right now; to claim and take and own like never before, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind stops him.

Rubbing insistent circles interspersed with erratic thrusts, Rick's hands burrow into Morty's skin, reveling in the sounds he draws.

“I wanna, wanna peel you clean,” Rick pants, his arousal an obvious line against Morty's thigh, grinding down against his thigh without hesitance or thought. “Wanna slice you, wanna peel you smooth for my touch. Say I can, Morty, say you need it.”

Morty hears an indistinct rustling and then suddenly feels the cold steel of a blade against his femoral artery as Rick slides what can only be a straight blade against his most vulnerable points.

Adrenaline floods through Morty's system in the face of new danger. The chill of sharp metal is a screaming contrast to the heat sinking deeper and deeper into his body and it takes everything he has to remain still. But the teen can’t get enough of it. He’s straining for more, trying to hear more, trying to feel more. Every ounce of his focus is revolving around Rick and the fingers in his ass and the metal pressed so intimately to his flesh. It’s drawn to the arousal in Rick's voice, drawn to the need so clear in his request, and Morty’s attention is held captive by the line of Rick's erection against his thigh like a moth to flame.

Pain is torture, anticipation is torture, but none of that compares to being presented with another option -- this one urging him to hold out and wait even though he is so fucking close to finally getting what he wants.

Morty whines with growing desperation, fruitlessly tugging against the bonds holding his wrists to the bed until the plastic is really starting to dig in and cause discomfort.

He can feel Rick's long, nimble fingers in his ass, working him but not doing nearly enough for how needy he is. He can feel that prodding touch against his prostate and he wants more. Those fingers aren't nearly enough now that Rick is otherwise engaged and he desperately wants to get fucked. He wants Rick's methodical savagery, wants his cock, wants those merciless fingers digging into his hips and the growl that echoes in the back of Rick's throat as they fuck.

But Rick wants him to wait. Rick wants him to _want_ to wait, and though Morty doesn’t want that at all, he’s all too willing to do it for Rick.

"Anything. Whatever you want." Morty finally croaks, carefully spreading his legs just a little further apart in open invitation. "Whatever you want is wh-what I need, Rick."

Morty pants as he imagines the picture they must paint. He imagines his own body from an outside perspective -- tied to the bed and covered in wax, beyond aroused, Rick looming over him with a knife and an erection that probably could cut diamond. The thought makes his dick bob and he groans wantonly.

"I need it." He moans when Rick doesn’t make an immediate move, his muscles clenching around Rick's fingers. "I need y-your hands all over me a-and the rush when you hold the knife too -- too close."

Morty carefully shifts the angle of his pelvis. It pushes his erection further up and the muscles in his ass tighten, making him feel that much needier even as he tries to focus on the presence of the blade.

The younger man mewls at that lack of stretch though, wishing Rick was already inside of him, pounding his desperate hole until he couldn't remember his own name.

"P-please, Rick. I-I-I'm so hard, just get it _off._ Get it all off a-a-and fuck me. I need it, Rick, need it, need it, _need it."_ He whines, babbling out a few more pleas for action as he curls and uncurls his toes, too hot and horny to remain entirely still.

Rick grins and sits back, carefully pulling his fingers from Morty's twitching ass and moving the blade carefully away from his skin.

“D-don't move, Morty. It'll end up reeeeaaalll messy if you do. I can probably-I could patch you up, but it's better if you just focus on staying still.”

Dragging the flat edge of the blade along Morty's skin, Rick avoids the globs of wax splattered across his chest and stomach, raising a thin sharp welt to trace his progress as he winds his way up the teen's trembling arms. With a quick flick the zip ties falls from Morty's wrists, revealing raw and reddened flesh, a thin purple bruise already starting to shine beneath it. Morty gasps as blood rushes back to his extremities, and Rick can tell he’s resisting the urge to rub his chafed and aching wrists, uncertain where exactly the blade is.

The knife flashes again with a twist of his wrist, and the blindfold falls from Morty's face. Rick presses the flat of the blade beneath Morty's chin, pressing the point in with just enough pressure to bring Morty's eyes to his face. “You-you wanna impress me, baby? You better keep still, cause you're not going to have any help with that now.”

Morty resists the urge to nod and break his one instruction instinctively, the razor-sharp point of the knife nicking his skin as he swallows reflexively. Rick drags the knife across his chest, peeling away layers of dead skin along with wax, leaving Morty feeling flayed and sensitive in its wake.

The few chest hairs Morty's managed to grow are shaved away as Rick curls the knife again, digging deeper to flick away the wax coating his nipple. Morty's doing a pretty good job of keeping his breathing shallow and holding still, his eyes fixed on the knife, but Rick can't help giving him a little more of a challenge. He breathes hotly on the flushed new skin he's exposed, enjoying the small sound that escapes Morty's throat, but provokes nothing more than an automatic twitch of his muscles. Not bad.

Rick then purses his lips and blows a hard stream of cold air over Morty's newly exposed nipple.

A high pitched sound of betrayal escapes Morty's lips as Rick actively seeks to sabotage him and his eyes go comically wide when Rick starts to tease his nipple with an incredibly unwanted breath of cool air. The newly exposed flesh is far more sensitive than Morty expected and it took everything he had not to arch up into it when the small peak immediately puckers, just begging for the heat of Rick's mouth.

However, while he managed to refrain from moving towards what he wants, it doesn’t stop Morty from sucking in a sharp and startled breath at the zing of unanticipated stimulation, his belly clenching reflexively when the blade nicks him without warning a second later.

Morty hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. Christ. He never expected the skin underneath all the wax to be so _sensitive._ He should've, it felt ridiculous not to see that coming from a mile away, but he hadn't. Just like he hadn't anticipated how much he'd enjoy the resulting sting and throb of Rick's blade dipping into his flesh. That was bound and determined to be some sort of issue in the future, Morty can already tell, but the brunet tries to push those thoughts away as he fights to stay still.

"W-wait." Morty stutters.

He looks down at Rick and feels his heart throb with an unspoken series of emotions he doesn't even want to think about when he sees the briefest flash of concern in Rick's cornflower blue eyes.

"Just -- just let me..."

Not even daring to breathe lest the knife get the better of him, Morty slowly rearranges his arms and reaches back to grab hold of the metal bar along the top of Rick's cot. The angle is somewhat awkward and it’s pulling the sensitive skin along his upper arms taut but it feels good to have something to grab onto. Especially as arousal, danger, and an entire assortment of other sensations pound through his veins and make it all the more difficult to stay still.

"Okay, I'm ready." Morty whispers, smiling to himself when Rick rolls his eyes and mutters something rude under his breath.

Maybe the older man is annoyed but it just seems like a lot of posturing to Morty. Not that the teen would ever say that to the Rick’s face.

His amusement must have shown on his face though because, just a few seconds later, Rick jumps directly into scraping wax from his skin and suddenly Morty is in a whole new circle of hell. The portions he uncovers are screaming at the foreign touch of open air. Compared to the insulated heat provided by the wax, room temperature is far colder than it should've been and Morty whines pathetically in the back of his throat.

He felt something slightly similar a few months ago when he got Fligarion saliva on his arm and Rick had to regrow a portion of his skin but, to feel hypersensitive nerves surrounded by average skin all over his upper half... It was far more intense than he would've imagined. It feels like he’s covered in randomly placed erogenous zones that've been highlighted in red and his skin is a road map that Rick is taking full advantage of.

Morty grits his teeth when Rick starts to tease him, veering off course and just gliding the flat of his blade over skin that’s already been uncovered. It makes the teen want to tremble but he just grips the bar of Rick's bed that much tighter, determined to do his best.

When Rick reaches for him though, when he lays a full palm against his chest and rubs his hand across all that fresh, exposed skin, Morty cries out and arches into it against his will. The resultant bite of metal is swift and Morty moans in painful pleasure, able to feel the exact moment that blood beads up to the surface and starts rolling down his skin like water off a duck’s back.

It feels wrong to like it, wrong to feel the pleas for just one more little cut right against the tip of his tongue, but Morty shoves the unease aside with a blissed out, danger-fueled groan when Rick makes a move to start peeling off bits of wax closer to the soft, vulnerable expanse of his belly.

Rick wishes he had a drink, just to make sure his hands will remain steady. The kid is purring like a luxury sports car beneath him and Rick is filled with ludicrous thoughts of riding the kid ‘til one or both of them shake apart into rattling pieces.

Sucking a deep breath in through his nose to ground himself, Rick fills his lungs with the smell of wax and sweat, that undeniable musk of sex, and just a tang of coppery blood. Shaving one of the last large gobs of wax from just below Morty's navel, he resists the urge to curse aloud when the teen's breathing hitches, and a new line of white appears in his wake, flushing pink and eventually sending a single drop of crimson to the surface.

It would be so easy to gut him like this, intentionally or not.

When the fuck did the kid get abs?

When the fuck did he decide this would be a good idea?

Morty's hips are rolling in tiny increments, barely shifting. He probably isn't even aware of it. But the constant rubbing pressure of his thigh against Rick's erection is quickly driving him to distraction.

He's torn between the voices still whispering in the back of his head.

The sane, rational voice says he should pin the teen's legs again to keep him still, regardless of what challenges he set. It reminds him that this little encounter is supposed to end in mutual orgasms and takeout pizza, not another trauma to leave the kid screaming through night terrors in twenty years.

But there's another voice, the one that always gets him into trouble of the best and worst kinds, that whispers about finding ice cubes, and applying them mercilessly to scorched skin. Of chilling the blade in his hand with liquid nitrogen until Morty writhes and thrusts up into it, blood pooling across them both while cold metal sinks into hot flesh. Of taking the kid apart in the last way he hasn't actively tried.

The drop of blood reaches critical capacity and starts to roll its way towards the curve of Morty's hip. Rick sucks in air between his teeth and digs the fingers of his free hand into Morty's thigh, still frotting against him like a pair of middle-schoolers at their first dance.

Time to be the responsible one. The better person. The best Rick he can be.

Which is to say, he compromises.

Settling himself between the boy's legs, he grinds against the slick crack of Morty's ass, giving into the temptation to thrust his hips just a few times and feel the clenching heat against him. Morty cries out, thrusting his hips back to meet his movements shamelessly, his cock bouncing obscenely above him.

Rick barely has enough time to pull the knife away from Morty's ribs as he lurches, and he releases his thigh to deliver a hard slap to the pink skin of Morty's exposed belly.

“Jesus, Morty! W-What the fuck are you doing? You really enough of a slut for my cock you're gonna- you're gonna get yourself killed over it?”

The kid tries to slur out apologies over his cry of pain, but Rick's reconsidering his plan already. Right now he's torn between slicing just a few thin cuts into Morty's thighs, of lapping at them and tonguing the abused flesh until Morty cries before fucking him, but he's not sure the kid has the self-control for that yet.

Fat, crocodile tears pool in Morty's eyes, making them glassy with the evidence of his need before finally spilling over and sliding down over his temples into his hair.

"P-please." Morty begs, his voice rough and high strung. "Just a -- just a little more, Rick. Just a little l-longer."

It feels twisted, how desperately he keeps hoping Rick will slip up and cut him. Morty hadn't anticipated that aspect of his sexuality. Before now he's never once thought about being turned on by somebody cutting him up but, then again, there are a lot of things that Morty hadn't expected to like.

The teen groans at that thought and a series of memories flood to the forefront of his mind, painting vivid pictures of his more risky sexual exploits with Rick across the back of his eyelids every time he blinks. Morty licks his lips and pushes back against his grandpa's rolling hips, panting hard and ragged as the firm length of his shaft rubs right up against his partially loosened hole.

Fuck. Everything he needs is so close and so fucking far away and it’s all Morty can think about.

He needs to be pounded. To be fucked and filled an inch past his life. He needs the ache from the throb of broken capillaries where Rick is holding him too tight and the hot, prickly tenderness of the faintly welting handprint on his stomach. He wants the biting edge of Rick's blade and the warm embrace of blood dripping over his skin, staining it red and painting his masochism across his body in big, bold strokes.

Morty's cock jumps as he thinks about Rick making him bleed, his fingers turning white as he grips the metal bar.

"I wanna touch you." Morty gasps, trying to distract himself from the darker thoughts slowly pushing through, his hole clenching rhythmically as Rick ruts up against him. "I-I'm trying to be good b-but I wanna touch you so- so bad, Rick.”

Morty imagines saying something far darker instead. He imagined saying, _cut me open,_  imagined saying, _reach in and find out what's inside_ , as he begs Rick to make a mess and smear blood all over his body until there was more red than white. He imagines how that'd look by the time they finally got around to fucking. He can practically envision Rick with blood all over his belly and his hips and hands, all over _both of their hands_ , and the way it'd probably end up all over the older man's face, neck, and in his hair.

The mental image has a fresh dribble of slick dripping from the tip of his cock and Morty has no doubt that Rick's own blood would end up joining the mix from where he'd inevitably rake his nails down his Grandpa's back while they fucked.

And suddenly there was nothing to distract him from what he wanted.

"Cut me." Morty finally begs, looking up at Rick with hooded eyes and swollen, parted lips, his muscles tense and nearly afraid. "I-I know it's -- _god,_ I know it’s fucked up b-but I'm so f-fuckin' hard and thinking about it is making m-m-my dick jump. Please Grandpa... M-make it -- god! Just make it hurt, R-rick. Make it hurt so g-good a-a-and then fuck me. Christ, Rick, make that hurt too."

The teen looks up to meet Rick's eyes and it feels like all the oxygen in the world is suddenly gone. His lungs have become more similar to the vacuum of space than anything even remotely useful, and when Morty speaks again it’s almost entirely unintentional.

"Break me." He whispers painfully. "Fuck me up a-and make me beg for every second of it, Rick. P-p-please. Please do this for me."

“Sit up.”

The simple command seems to throw Morty off, back straining towards Rick while his hands remain in a dead man's grip around the cot.

“Fucking let go and _sit up_ , Morty,” Rick growls. This time it seems to sink in. Morty's eagerly dropping his arms to his sides, and pressing his palms flat into the mattress, trying to launch himself towards Rick before his aching muscles can register the screaming pain the sudden movement has caused.

He doesn't get far. As soon as Morty's back clears the cot, Rick's arm is slipping through the space it creates and wrapping tightly around the teen's waist, halting his progress.

Raising Morty's hips until his feet begin to slide on the sheets, Rick forces Morty to hold his weight back on his shaking arms. He’s effectively holding the bulk of the boy's body on a single point, a bastardized version of a reverse wheelbarrow. Holding his position, he watches as Morty's arms begin to shake below him, threatening to send his head and shoulders crashing back down. Before they can, Rick shifts his hips, and pushes into Morty with one slow, excruciating thrust.

It's too tight, and by this point nearly dry except for the mess of pre-come Rick had made of Morty's cheeks, but if Morty thinks he wants to be broken this is as good a start as any. It's slow, and it feels as hot as the red patches on Morty's chest, and if this is almost too much for Rick it must be _agony_ for the boy beneath him. Eventually he buries himself to the hilt and pulls a little tighter against Morty's waist, likely leaving unconventionally angled bruises on the top of his hip.

Shifting forward, Rick can hear Morty wail, but he successfully manages to seat his hips below the teen.

“All right, Morty. You can grab my shoulders.”

It's an order phrased as a lenience and the specificity leaves no room for exploration. Morty barely seems to hear him, his face flushed and jaw hanging as he pants for breath, but after a second he makes a desperate grab for Rick with one hand. It falls laughably short of its target, but eventually he manages to dig short nails deep into first one, then both of Rick's shoulders, settling his weight further into his grandfather's lap and pressing the girth of his cock deeper into his prostate.

Morty behaves himself admirably. Rick had expected him plaster himself around Rick like a cheap suit everywhere his body could press against him, but his contact remains limited to his hands on Rick's shoulders, and the soft weight of his thighs and ass across Rick's lap. Slamming his torso against Rick would probably sting like bitch between his welts and burns anyways, but if that's an attractive offer he makes no move towards it. Nor does he try to grind or fuck himself on the cock he's been waiting for so patiently. He seems content to stay exactly where Rick has placed him, like a pliable doll, shaking slightly and panting while he seeks out Rick's gaze.

“That's a good boy, _mijo_. Don't move.”

Rick returns the knife he's held away to Morty's skin, this time scraping lightly across the untouched expanse of Morty's back, relishing the small gasps and renewed shivers that accompany the journey. Digging the point of the blade between two of Morty's lower ribs, he waits until he feels the boy go totally still.

Rick bodily lifts Morty a few inches, repositioning the pair of them and leaning his back against the wall, allowing his legs to dangle off the edge of the narrow cot.

The knifepoint drags across and around Morty's body, curving around his side and down his leg to rest flatly against the top of his thigh. From his perch on Rick's lap, Morty has a perfect view between his arms to the sight of the blade dragging across the tops of his thighs, mere inches from his dripping erection. He looks transfixed, and Rick allows himself to thrust up shallowly into that gorgeous, tight heat a few times, just to assure he has Morty's full attention.

“I'm going to cut you five times,” Rick's eyes are deadly serious. “And while I do you-you're going to tell me what you _wouldn't_ let me do to you.”

The knife cuts through the skin of Morty's thigh like hot butter.

“That is, if-if you can think of any.”

Morty throws his head back and groans.

It feels like the sound is forcibly ripped from some deep, dark place inside of him and, for a moment, he can’t even feel the pain of it. All he can feel is the edge of Rick's blade parting his skin like wrapping paper caught in the glinting steel jaws of a pair of scissors, exposing the flesh beneath to air, and it's fucking _divine._

That first cut has Morty clenching down, hard, around Rick's cock. It pulls a sharp hiss from the man and, though the sound is fleeting, Morty latches onto it with brilliantly driven focus.

That is, until the wicked sharpness of Rick's blade met his flesh once more.

"Well?" Rick demands, pressing the knife against his flesh enough to get the teen's attention but not enough to break the skin a second time. "Speak up, Morty."

Swimming in dopamine and serotonin, Morty is lost. For a lengthy second he can't even remember what it is he's supposed to be saying, but then Rick digs the blade in a little deeper and starts making the second cut, nice and slow, and Morty is a gasping, panting mess.

_"Fuuuuuuuck, yessss!"_

Christ, how's he supposed to think? Morty doesn't know.

It's all too much. His body is on fire, and all of it is different. The bright, splotchy red patches scattered across his skin like paint from a brush across canvas have become a constant throb, a dull ache, but every time he moves they flare back to life and seem to start the cooling process all over again. His ass stings, his rim forcibly stretched around the thick, unshakable girth of Rick's cock. And, while it was totally worth it just to be able to feel Rick inside of him, hot and throbbing and ready to fucking wreck him, Morty can still feel his abused hole fluttering around the base of Rick's cock as his body tries to adjust to the unexpected intrusion.

The teen moans and digs his nails just a little deeper into Rick's shoulders, relishing the meager ounce of control he possesses as he holds Rick tight enough to break the skin.

Morty suddenly yelps when the tail end of Rick's second cut suddenly gets - what feels like - a lot deeper.

Looking down between their bodies, a high pitched, needy whine slips from between Morty's lips and he clenches down around Rick's length once more. The blood is flowing. It’s dripping down his thighs and onto Rick's legs, maybe even onto the cot beneath them, and it has Morty's heart beating dangerously fast. He feels slightly light-headed but the brunet is almost positive that’s simply because of how much blood is trying to force itself into his dick and he doesn't pay it much mind.

"Morty." Rick growls, this time in warning, and Morty snaps to attention and forces himself to look away from the dazzling display between their bodies. 

Right, fuck... _What wouldn't he let Rick do to him?_ The thought feels foreign and implacable, like a puzzle piece from the wrong box mixed in where it didn't belong, and Morty is having a hard time processing it.

"I wouldn't let you..."

Morty trails off, his eyes unfocused as he tries to dig through the sticky, molasses covered mess that was his own thoughts, trying to find the edges of his limitations while everything felt so good and right and beyond him.

The teen swallows shakily and opens his mouth to speak but all that came out was a breathless gasp as Rick shifts, effectively pressing his length even more firmly against Morty's prostate.

Fuck, Rick is never going to fuck him if he can't complete this one stupid thing. 

Morty tries to start simple then.

 "I wouldn't let you k-kill me... I wouldn't let you maim me o-o-or put me in a -- in a gimp mask." Morty rapidly starts to babble. His words are quickly starting to come out rushed and lumped together, his brain working too fast after finally finding ground to push off from, and Morty can't stop it. "I wouldn't let you pimp m-m-me out o-or fist me or let you fuck me in front of mom a-and dad. A-a-and I wouldn't let y-you break my bones o-or fuck me dry with zero prep or --"

Rambled off words are suddenly cut off as Morty sucks in a sharp, startled breath and looks down to see the point of Rick's knife pressing into his skin, ready to cut and eventually scar him for the third time.

Morty can't look away.

"Please." He whispers brokenly, his body trembling as he waits for the inevitable sting of the third cut.

Rick feels steadier now, more in control. It’s hard to feel anything less than heady with a nubile young body clenched around your dick, whimpering for you while you carved patterns into their skin, but Morty's recitations had helped.

It was actually a pretty good list under duress. And it gave him an interesting glimpse into how Morty's mind worked.

_Don't kill me. Don't break me beyond repair or usefulness. Do whatever you want as long as it's still you and me._

Plus, it was a good reminder for both of them, that Morty was the one choosing to let him flay him raw, in everything but the most literal sense of the word.

Funny, the kid didn't look nearly as embarrassed about that as he had when they'd started.

Rick ignores that second little voice in the back of his head again as he made the third and fourth cuts, watching the blood flow to the surface.

_He'd do anything for you, anything at all, with a little push you could have him begging you to break half of his limits within a couple months. You could break him apart and put him back together, rebuild him anyway you want, the Six Million Dollar Morty-_

It’s easier to ignore this time.

He switches to Morty's other thigh for the final cut. He makes this one deeper, wiggling the blade just a little to widen the shallow gash, watching the boy's eyes go glassy as the blood drips down the inside of his thigh towards the place where Rick's cock is nestled deep in his ass.

Drawing the knife free for the final time, Rick observes the sheen of red clinging to the blade. He wants to lap it off, to taste that iron tang again, but he has a better idea. Bringing the knife up to Morty's lips, he presses it against them, smiling as the flat of Morty's tongue slips out to taste himself.

“Clean it. Don't slice your tongue off while you do.”

Morty laps clumsily at the knife, eventually leaving it spit-shiny and silvery clean. Rick snaps the blade closed and chucks it across the room, hungrily smashing his mouth against Morty's as he chases the taste of copper and salt.

His hips start to piston up into the sweet heat in his lap, groaning at the friction and the wet slap of sweat and blood. Pulling away, he mutters against Morty's neck, drawing teeth along mottled skin to bring fresh flushes of blood to the bruises there.

“So fucking good for me, baby. How do you want me to fuck you, huh? _Dime cariño_. All done now, I'll make you feel-”

He cuts himself off as he finds the curve of Morty's shoulder, giving into the temptation to bury his teeth deeper into unprotected flesh.

The buzz in Morty's blood quickly surges when Rick starts to move and, by the time his grandfather sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, the sensation has evolved into a full blown electric current, sputtery crackles kicking up sparks behind his ribcage.

Rick is fucking him, finally fucking him, and the rough burn of raw, unlubricated friction has Morty shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The brunet releases one of Rick's shoulders and quickly slips his left arm under Rick's, grabbing eagerly at his back with a wanton groan as he digs sharp little nails into Rick's skin once more and starts to claw the shit out of him.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck."_ Morty chants, rocking his hips back and forth as Rick fucks up into him.

The motion is pressing Rick's length against his inner walls, teasing his prostate, and Morty quickly discovers that feeling the tantalizing brush of his aching cock against Rick's stomach as the older man works him over is both the sweetest pleasure and anything but.

Sliding his right hand up, Morty buries his fingers in Rick's hair and tangles the short little digits in the strands, holding on for dear life as Rick fucks him. He can feel the moment that Rick responds to it as well, sinking his teeth even deeper into the muscle, and Morty howls in pain when he feels the skin break under his Grandpa's savagery.

Morty whines Rick's name desperately and, unable to stay still and just get fucked, Morty throws himself into the action. He starts bouncing in Rick's lap, no longer actively accepting what Rick has to give but eagerly and aggressively seeking out his own pleasure. He can feel the burn of his cuts being stimulated with every movement, the slick, squelch of blood loud and impossible to miss between them, and when Rick suddenly drives his hips up at a slightly different angle, Morty cries out.

It’s pressing Rick's cock directly against his prostate, allowing the older man to rub up against the little gland without jabbing it directly and it ignites a crazy burn inside of the teen, coiling up tightly in his belly and knotting like tangled thread under Rick's puppet-master touch. Lightning-bug flashes spiral out from it, dancing along Morty's nerves in places that have fuck-all to do with his dick or his ass.

How anybody has ever gotten Rick into their bed and let him walk away afterward is so far beyond Morty he can’t even fathom it.

"There!" Morty mewls, desperately trying to grind down against Rick's shaft. "Fuck me harder just l-like that. Hard and fast -- Fuck!"

The teen throws his head back when Rick takes up a somewhat faster rhythm and he tries to keep up with it, fucking himself on Rick's cock as the older man pounds up into from from below even though the muscles in his legs are screaming in pain.

"Please, Rick, please." He babbles, clawing at Rick's back and leaving deep, angry grooves in the other man's skin. "Fuck me, pound me until I scream! My s-slutty hole feels so -- so empty without you. Use m-me, Rick, take your pleasure from m-m-my tight ass. Whatever you want!"

The teen finally releases Rick's hair and slams his open palm against the wall behind Rick, using it as leverage to keep his torso away from him. He can see a thin sheen of sweat clinging to Rick's skin and, with the salt and the heat and his newly scalded skin, Morty knows the contact would be agonizing. Even if it _is_ rather tempting. And, cock ring or no, now that Rick is finally fucking him, Morty has a feeling that the pain of that contact and the press of both of their stomachs against his cock would make him come in an instant.

Morty tightens his muscles around Rick's cock with a sharp cry instead, just barely able to hold it with how much more intense the friction became. Hearing noise, and feeling movement, but barely processing it.

"More!"

Rick's only half aware of his surroundings at the moment, all points of sensation reduced to the sharp pain and trickle of blood down his shoulders, the incredible tight heat around his cock, and the taste of blood in the air and beneath his teeth.

Morty's saying something, but Rick hasn't heard anything but the pump of blood in his own ears for a while now. Suddenly a sharp cry comes cutting through the fog, and when his brain finally translates what 'more' means, he's already moving.

His hands dig firmly into that sweet ass, and lift as he stands, breaking away from his prize beneath his mouth to look where he's going. He feels the air around him disturbed as arms flail, small hands grabbing at him before settling against his chest, pressing him away. But even as they do, long legs are hooking further around his waist, and that gorgeous ass between his palms is still clenching and grinding against his cock.

Dropping to his knees on the carpet, Rick ignores the jarring exhale that comes from below as the wind is knocked out of the boy, sprawling him out on the ground below him. He also ignores the parts of his body that weakly protest that he's far, far too old to do this, easily overpowered by the wave of lust that sings through him as he covers the teen beneath him.

He fucks Morty hard now, unwrapping his legs from around his waist to force them further up, above his shoulders. Drops of sweat are falling down on Morty's patchwork dappled chest, and his back must be turning to hamburger on the thin carpet, but the odd words Rick can pick out from his wailing don't sound a thing like 'stop' or 'no', so he ignores them. Rick can't be bothered to figure out if any words are falling from his own mouth, but if they are they can't be important.

Wrapping his hand around the soft inside of Morty's thigh to shove it higher makes Morty shriek, and Rick pulls away. His hand is covered in tacky blood, slowly clotting and salty with sweat. Wrapping his hand around Morty's arm to soothe him, he grinds deeply around the boy's prostate until the sounds he hears are pure pleasure.

He's left a near perfect handprint around Morty's bicep, like primary-red fingerpainting, and the sheer possessiveness of the sight on top of the rest of the numerous marks covering the small body is almost too much for him to handle.

Christ, he's definitely going to come soon. He falls further over the boy, tonguing at the bite on Morty's neck and running a coated finger over his bite-bruised lips. Fuck he looks so good in red. How has Rick never noticed that before?

Rick's eyes slip closed, his hips starting to stutter as his orgasm creeps closer from the edges of his mind.

Ow, Jesus! That little fucker just about bit through his knuckle!

“R-rick! You-you're not listening! I-I'm gonna come. Please! Rick, ha -- have mercy!" Morty sobs out, his toes curled up tightly as he tries to get Rick to listen to him. "Let me, l-l-let me come, please!"

Long, dexterous fingers grab hold of the flesh just below both of Morty's knees, forcing his legs even tighter to his chest and, though that isn't what he wants, Morty can’t complain. All he can do is choke out gasp after broken gasp as Rick forces his cock in even deeper, hitting spots that Morty hadn't even known existed.

He wants the sight to match the sensation though and, despite being a strain on his already screaming muscles, Morty forces himself to lean forward and look down between their bodies. He can see where they’re joined. He can see Rick sliding in and out of him just as easily as he can see the clench and release of Rick's muscles as he flexes forward, in and out, driving Morty to the very brink with the sort of fluidity that feels utterly impossible.

Unable to watch for a second longer without losing his mind, Morty throws his head back. He ignores the burst of unpleasant pain when he succeeds only in slamming his skull back against the unforgiving carpet, crying out Rick's name as he does so. It’s a high pitched sound, broken and wanting, but Rick doesn't seem to care in the slightest. He just picks up speed, pounding his length into the brunet's loosened hole with renewed energy, and Morty is unable to do anything but take it.

His grandpa continues on that way for a while, alternating between hard, deep thrusts, and arrhythmic, deliberately uneven rolls of his hips, effectively driving Morty to the brink and making him squirm as much as humanly possible beneath Rick's hold.

But there is only so much the teen can take.

His cock is aching, bouncing between them front and fucking center in-between his legs, and every time Rick even so much as brushes up against it Morty is positive that he'll explode. The ring feels too tight, like it’s strangling his dick, and when tears start to leak from Morty's eyes he knows it’s because he’s about to lose control.

He chants Rick's name like a mantra, looking up at him with helpless green eyes as he begs the older man to take it off.

Rick growls low in his throat and suddenly releases one of the brunet's legs. He claps a single bloody palm over Morty's mouth, effectively shutting him up, and throws himself into their coupling. Rick's thrusts are more brutal than ever, forcing him up the carpet and giving his back a good case of rug burn, but Morty doesn't even care. His eyes are practically rolling back in his head, the burn spreading through him and infecting his blood like a poison as he grabs Rick's forearm and digs his nails in.

Without warning, Rick hitches his leg up, hooking Morty's knee over his shoulder to free his hand. The angle is unexpected, making Morty whine behind Rick's hand. When his grandpa leans forward though, forcing a sharp amount of strain on his hamstrings while throwing his hips forward, slamming into him hard and fast as he holds his face to the floor by the hand covering his mouth, Morty loses it.

He screams against Rick's palm, hooking his other leg around the older man's waist and digging his heel into the bottom of Rick's back. Tears stream freely down his face and, despite being muffled and all but impossible to understand, he pleads with Rick to let him finish.

The older man must hear him though because seconds later Rick is reaching between them and making a grab for the ring squeezing his cock. Morty whines desperately, his dick bobbing when Rick's hand gets close, and the second he’s released Morty flat out sobs with relief.

"Come," Rick growls. "Come now or not at all."

Morty tries to hold on, he really does. He clenches down hard, holding on and fighting a losing battle for control. Losing, and then lost. The tide crashes over him, tumbling him like driftwood, leaving him washed up and devastated as he comes without a single touch.

Rick's hand comes off his mouth the moment he finds his voice and, if Morty had been more aware, he’d be embarrassed by the sounds he makes. The teen sings like a canary, his cry breaking drastically in multiple places as he empties himself between them, coming harder and more fully than he ever has before.

Rick is right behind him, unable to hold off a second longer as Morty clenches around him like a fucking Chinese finger trap. The kid is still shrieking and twitching as Rick pulls out roughly, fisting his sore cock as he comes, adding more stripes of white to the mess he's already made of Morty's body. The teen is covered from head to knee in layers of blood, sweat, come and tears, layered over a spiderweb of burns, cuts, and bruises. He looks like he’s been worked over by an escaped chain gang.

He manages to collapse beside Morty on the carpet as his legs give out, burying his face in his arms. Groaning lightly, he realizes the haze of endorphins from his orgasm have already started to give way to the protest of his joints and abused muscles. With it comes the cold hard glint of sober reality he's been trying to avoid.

_What in the ever-loving fuck was that, Sanchez?_

This was supposed to be a variation on the kind of shit Jerry would pull out on a particularly desperate Valentine's Day to try to grab a shred of Beth's interest. A little wax, some light bondage, another lesson in teaching his grandson the importance of asking clearly for what he wants during sex. Orgasms all around, and have Morty be less of a distracted, jumpy mess when he helps Rick in the garage that night.

He guesses it's fair to say that Morty's masochistic streak runs a lot deeper than he'd initially thought. Hell, deeper than either of them probably could have imagined. But fuck, he'd let himself get way too fucking carried away, and it was-

_It was the best sex you've had in years, you fucking sadist._

He's never been one for the vanilla spectrum and, given Morty's rampant and growing porn addiction, this is hardly the first taste of the wilder sides of sex he's introduced him to, but this is ten and twelve steps beyond a little spanking and name-calling.

Morty's silent beside him, his voice seemingly lost after that last desperate sound wrenched itself from his throat. If it weren't for the steady rise and fall of his chest (and the fact he'd seen Mortys survive far worse injuries) Rick might have had a moment of panic. Still, just because there's nothing wrong with him physically, nothing that Rick couldn't patch up in half an hour at any rate, doesn't mean he hasn't done some irreparable damage.

He raises a hand to reach towards Morty and pauses, realizing it's still tacky with blood and semen. Wiping it haphazardly on the ground beside him,  clears his throat and opens his mouth to try again, only to realize he has no idea what in the hell to say.

'Are you OK' seems like the stupidest question in the world, surpassed only by 'Do you hate me?'

Pulling his shit together, he sits up, looking down at the boy beneath him and running his still sticky hand through his hair as he says the one sentence he had hoped he'd never have to utter in this relationship.

“We should probably talk about this, huh.”

Laying on Rick's bedroom floor, ass empty and skin burning, Morty swims through a pool of unimaginable bliss. His thoughts are slow, like each one is saturated in the endorphins flooding through his system, working through a lake of pure molasses and fighting to make headway.

But Rick's voice still manages to break through.

Morty hears it loud and clear through the fog of his afterglow. His voice seems hesitant, like talking is the very last thing that Rick actually wants to do, and the fact that he’s suggesting it before the sweat can even cool from their bodies has Morty's endless swell of pleasure evolving into a rapidly growing sense of anxiety.

What the fuck did they just do?

The teen's eyes snap open, glassy and far away but still somewhat focused, and he stares at Rick's ceiling.

He begged Rick to hurt him. The wax was one thing, craving the burn, begging for what Rick already planned to do to him, that was one thing. But where they'd ended up... That was something different. He'd deviated from the plan, took advantage of the introduction of the knife and begged Rick to cut him. He'd pushed farther than he ever expected, pleading for things that sounded absolutely insane in retrospect.. But his mind had never felt so clear.

Aside from the anxiety brought about by the idea of actually talking about what happened between them, the edge of panic that usually rides Morty's consciousness is gone. The weight he carries on his shoulders, day in and day out, about his choices and his life and his mistakes is lightened. The cruel voice in the back of his head that constantly says he’s worthless and ugly is strangely silent and Morty finally feels like he can breathe.

That isn’t to say that Morty doesn’t feel like a freak. Because he does. There’s definitely something wrong with him and the teen is terrified that he's just shown it to Rick. The idea that Rick might cut him off, that he'll say it’s too much and not what he signed up for when they silently agreed to fuck on a regular basis, has Morty wracked with fear. He doesn't want to lose the pleasure he's just discovered but he doesn't want to lose the fucked up relationship he has with Rick even more and the thought of losing both has Morty unshakably afraid of the conversation to come.

"Wh-what is there to talk about, Rick?" Morty asks, keeping his gaze firmly on the ceiling.

But Morty can feel Rick's eyes on him.

Their icy scrutiny burns through him more efficiently than the wax and, when Morty finally succumbs to the pressure and looks over to meet Rick's stare, he knows the older man has seen through his flimsy deflection without even trying.

Tears immediately pool in Morty's eyes and threaten to spill over. Rick can see right through him, Morty knows it. He's always been able to see through him and Morty doesn’t know why he'd even bothered to lie or try and cover it up. Rick deserves his honesty. If they were in this, then they should've at least been in it together. In that moment, Morty can’t imagine anything more cowardly than lying about his wants and needs to the man teaching him about his sexuality.

The tears slip free of Morty's eyes and, when he opens his mouth to speak, the truth comes rushing out in a jumble.

"I d-didn't expect to like it th-that much. But -- but then y-you cut me on accident and it felt good and I-I-I wanted so much more and I just..."

Morty looks to Rick with parted lips, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but doesn't know what. And what exactly can he say? Is he supposed to ask Rick if he’s broken? Or is he supposed to ask if Rick enjoyed it too? Does he ask for more? Or say that they never have to go that far again? Morty doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything and he desperately looks to Rick to take the lead and guide them both as he always does, but Morty also knows the rules of the game.

Honesty is rewarded. Fortune favors the bold. There’s no reward for shame or cowardice.

"It was... the best sex... I've never come so hard in my -- in my life, Rick. I..." Morty swallows and forces himself to meet Rick's eyes, feeling like he’s about to jump off a cliff as the honest truth lingers right on the tip of his tongue.

But Morty takes the leap anyway.

"I want more. M-maybe not that intense right away... B-b-but I want more."

"If you do." He quickly adds on.

Rick stares at Morty silently in disbelief.

How the fuck can the kid say that now? Now, when his voice is raw and throaty from screaming, when he's gazing up at Rick through tear-streaked eyelashes because he's probably in too much pain to sit up to Rick's level.

But there he is, shyly asking for more, even as he begs to back it up and spare himself for a while.

Has he really done such a number on the kid in the few months they've been screwing around? Or did he start this earlier, when he first started cultivating Morty's desperate need for attention of any sort to fit his needs and shitty moods.

Rick is tempted to tell Morty it was over right now. To get up and walk away. To pull out his phone and snap a picture of him just like this, to remind him of just how close he came to ruining the boy forever. To spend the rest of his days as far away from the kid as he can, shamefully masturbating to a photo of his wrecked and bloodied grandson.

Once more the dark, bloodthirsty part of him perks up, quiet and sated for for now, but still purring ideas about what could be if this _is_ really what Morty wants. If he really did want Rick to build him up and tear him apart on a regular basis. If this isn't just something he's done to warp the kid, but a deep and twisted compatibility, just like all the other ways Morty conveniently slots in his life.

 _And so what if it is?_ The voice whispers. _May as well reap what you sow._

Fuck, he needs a drink. He needs all the goddamn drinks, and most of all he needs Morty to stop looking at him like that. Fumbling for his abandoned lab coat, Rick pulls out a healing serum. He hadn't expected to need the whole thing for this evening's little adventure, but fuck if he isn’t almost looking forward to the hangover he was going to spare the rest for now.

“We'll see,” Rick responds. And he was a parent long enough to know that's the cop out answer for 'no'.

It seems Morty is also at least partially clued in on what the term 'we'll see' can mean because he instantly droops. ‘We'll see’ doesn't necessarily mean no but it doesn't mean yes either. However, he isn't sure what else he can say. It isn't like he can force Rick to do anything. Besides, if there was one thing Morty knows about Rick it was that, if he pulled away and you made an attempt to outmaneuver him through force or fancy word play he'd withdraw even further, viciously guarded by barbed comments and icy indifference until he was far beyond reach.

So, backed into a corner and unable to do anything else, Morty simply frowns.

He looks away from Rick as the older man places the tip of the applicator gun against his thigh and shoots him up with the healing serum. He can feel it slipping through his veins, uncomfortable and vaguely cool as it heals the damage. Morty's heart clenches with pained emotion as the map of Rick's brutality is at least partially erased from his skin.

He really is a freak.

Rick doesn't want to remember what happened. Rick apparently doesn't want him to remember it either, like healing the damage will somehow make all of his newfound desires go away. Morty doesn't think they will though. He can't stop thinking about the pain and the mental release and how light he'd felt mere seconds ago. He can't stop wishing that he could just whittle and beg Rick for similar treatment in the future until Rick's answer was a firm yes instead of a dismissive 'we'll see'.

But, most of all, Morty can't stop thinking that he really is broken. Too broken even for Rick to handle.

The thought has tears prickling his eyes once more but Morty refuses to let them fall. He wipes angrily at his face, trying to destroy the evidence of how he feels. When he glances up and notices that Rick seems to be avoiding looking at him anyway, Morty's heart breaks.

He did something wrong. He must've. Normal people don't want to be cut or hurt. Normal people don't want to be fucked dry or to smell blood on their partner's skin. Normal people don't want to be dominated and broken over and over by their grandparents. He was weird, just as ugly on the inside as he is on the outside, and if he knows it then Rick certainly knew it. Rick is a genius. Rick can see through him in an instant. Rick has to know there is something warped and rotten inside of him.

Maybe when he said they should talk he expected Morty to say that they went too far. Maybe he expected Morty to be upset and, when he wasn't, when he realized what a fucked up mess his grandson actually was, he closed the conversation before it could get any worse. Maybe he didn't want to think about it. Maybe he didn't want confirmation. Maybe he wanted to pretend that Morty was easier to handle and that things were still normal and not a bloody mess in Rick's room.

Morty, is actively working himself into a full blown panic attack, feeling like his mind is tearing itself to shreds.

It feels like something is wrong, something he can't place. He's never spiraled so out of control in such a short amount of time, wracked with anxiety and unable to breathe, and Morty doesn’t know what to do. He wants to ask Rick what is happening but he doesn’t know how. Rick already seems upset, maybe not mad but certainly bothered and firmly detached. He feels unreachable, and Morty is drowning without a lifeboat.

"You said I was good before." Morty blurts, glancing towards Rick and suddenly wishing that he hadn't let himself speak up. But he pushes forward anyway. "Y-you said that if I -- if I was good I could have another kiss... Can I...?

The teen looks towards Rick's face, feeling his heart clench and twist at the detached distance in the older man's features.

"Something is wrong," He whispers, pained and vulnerable. "I don't know what's wrong b-b-but I really need a kiss. If... If you want me to go after that I will but -- but please, Rick. Please don't say no again."

Rick watches as the last skin knits together along cuts, as bruises flush and then pale, leaving unblemished skin in their wake. Without them, Morty looks worse. Smaller. He doesn't look like he's survived something bravely, he's just a kid, covered in a mess of blood and come and tears, looking confused as to why he still hurts.

There's no way this was ever going to get fixed by a serum and a sedative, but he's damned if he'll refuse a request to try. He'll mitigate what damage he can, that's all he can do now.

_Yeah, something's wrong, Morty. But it's not your fault._

He probably should have said that out loud, but his throat feels clenched and raw. Leaning down to press a kiss to Morty's lips, he winces at the taste of dried blood on freshly repaired skin. As soon as his lips meet Morty's the teen is launching himself at him, wrapping arms around his shoulders and curling into his body, desperately pouring his apparent anxiety into the offered outlet.

Rick keeps the kiss light, pulling away every time Morty tries to deepen it before returning with light brushes of lips and tongue. He runs his hands down Morty's back, alternating slow strokes and small circles. Morty's shaking starts to abate and his breathing begins to even out with the slow, steady pace Rick is subconsciously suggesting. Raising his head, he ignores Morty's protests and presses his head into his shoulder, running a hand through his matted hair while he surveys the scene.

This hadn't exactly been a microchip assembly clean room a few hours ago, but now it looks like someone shot a low budget horror movie in here. The sheets on the cot are ripped and stained with blood.

The carpet isn't much better. Melted candles and flakes of wax are stuck to everything, matching the globs of come spattered across the clothes and floor. Perfect, he's made two messes for the price of one.

Wrapping his arm around Morty's waist and thighs in a disturbingly familiar way, Rick groans and rises to his feet. Morty doesn't say a word about any indignities of being carried bridal style, but his arms tighten further around Rick's shoulders. He might still be crying into Rick's chest, he can't be sure.

The small body and frail limbs in his arms make the burn and creak of his knees and the sharp hiss of the nail marks in his back feel even more obscene. The kid is quiet as he walks them through the deserted upstairs hallway, eventually setting him down on the bathroom counter and gently but firmly pulling his hands away.

“Let's get you cleaned up, okay?”

"Okay."

The agreement feels vaguely disassociated, like he’s trapped inside of the body as a mere spectator to the outside world, but Morty doesn’t try and fight it. He just watches on from where he is -- behind the green eyes that are supposed to be his -- feeling like he's somehow slipped into the Twilight Zone as Rick puts a stopper in the tub and turns on the water for him.

The teen turns his head to the side, watching as Rick fiddles with the knobs until the temperature isn't too hot or too cold, surveying the situation as he dumps bubble bath under the steady stream along with a bunch of Summer's weird bath oils. For some reason it feels weird to see Rick doing something so normal and domestic. Even though he watches Rick do all sorts of normal, domestic things day in and day out around the house, for some reason Morty finds himself looking away for reasons he can't explain.

Maybe that's why he jumps when Rick returns to his side and starts running a damp washcloth along his arm. It takes the teen totally off guard and he looks to Rick, startled but open, as the older man gives him a quick wipe down. He’s almost sad to see it all go. Rick is erasing their encounter even further, wiping the tacky come from his belly with barely a hint of hesitation, removing the bloody hand print from his arm without batting an eyelash.

He feels like he should be upset. In some ways he is. Morty liked the handprint, liked the primal nature of it, liked the way it made his stomach flutter to be claimed by Rick's hand in his own blood, but he also knows that it couldn't stay. It was only temporary. Just like everything else.

Morty's focus wavers, his thoughts drifting lazily from one thing to the next, but he’s still aware. He goes willingly when Rick ushers him into the tub and, as he sinks into the warm water, unable to feel the sting of his burns, the teen's heart also sinks. He should be happy, sitting in a bubble bath with Rick doting on him. A few hours ago the idea would've made him sigh longingly, wishing that something like that could actually happen, but now it just makes him confused.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Morty doesn't know. He doesn't know why he feels so far away, doesn’t know why he wants Rick to hurt him, doesn’t know why Rick is picking up the washcloth and running it across his shoulders like he actually cares. This has never happened before. Rick usually sends him on his way, no cuddling, no farewell kisses, and that’s that. But this time is different, even to Rick. The older man is treating him like he’s fragile and Morty doesn't know what to think about that.

"Why are you here?"

The question feels blunt against his tongue, too blunt to be coming from his own mouth. It sounds like something Rick would say, direct and to the point, monotone and questioning. Morty doesn't like it.

"I don't mind. I like it. It feels nice. But why? You never do this sort of stuff."

If Morty had been in a better state of mind he would've noticed his lack of stutter but, as it was, he didn't notice. He just looks up at Rick from where he is, surrounded by bubbles and nice smelling water, in search of answers.

Rick sighs. The kid just won't let him make this easy or simple, of course not. That's half the reason they're in this mess now.

He still hasn't managed to impart the lesson to Morty that picking apart complicated emotions usually only makes a mess, like taking a ball of yarn and tangling it across a room in a three dimensional spiderweb. Rick has no energy to try and explain the complexities of more intense BDSM they seem to have tripped headfirst into after splashing in the shallows, and Morty doesn't seem to have the capacity to absorb new concepts like 'sub drop' and 'aftercare' and 'complete and utter failure to engage in risk aware consensual kink' right now anyway.

Still, the kid's right. The last person he probably gave this kind of attention to was Beth, when she was small enough she only pretended to drown her rubber ducks instead of asking him to make ones that would quack and thrash while she did it.

So he bites down a sarcastic remark and gives the most honest answer he can while fishing for the bottle of all-in-one shampoo in the corner of the tub.

“Just because I don't do it a lot doesn't mean I never do it. And what we did tonight wasn't what we usually do either.”

Morty's still staring at him with glazed eyes as he starts to work a lather in his matted curls. Choosing his words carefully, he still manages to trip over them.

“You let me- I did some pretty... pretty rough stuff to you back there, Morty. And if this makes you feel good after that, I'm-I'll do it.”

Morty acknowledges that Rick is right. What they did tonight isn't what they usually did. It makes sense, in retrospect to his question, that things would be handled differently. And it _did_ feel good. Good enough that Morty idly starts to daydream about pain and bubble baths in equal measure.

Morty's eyes fall half mast and he lets out a breathy sigh as Rick's long, spidery fingers continue to massage his scalp. It feels wonderful, to be taken care of after being handled so roughly, and the teen simply lets himself fall into it. He lets himself be soothed by the generic scent of cheap shampoo, lets himself sink under Rick's spell as the older man cards soapy fingers through his curls, lets himself exist without expectation.

The teen glances up at Rick when he feels a gentle hand on his back as well as his chest. He’s momentarily confused but, when Rick applies pressure, he slides back trustingly and lets himself be positioned under the tap. Rick is incredibly thorough. He shields the teen's eyes when he turns on the water, protecting them from soapy run off, and he makes sure Morty doesn’t get cracked in the skull by the edge of the faucet when he sits back up.

Sometimes it’s easy to think of Rick as somebody that'd already been a parent once in their life.

Upon sitting up, Morty looks to Rick once more and feels his heart jump a little when he catches a shadow of the expression floating just under surface of Rick's mask. It looks worried. Or maybe ashamed. It doesn’t look indifferent, that’s for sure, and Morty wonders what it means.

"I felt good during the rough stuff, too, Rick." Morty says, suddenly remembering that Rick had spoken to him a few moments ago.

The words feel heavy against his tongue but, for whatever reason, they seem important to say. And he means them of course, that also seems important, but Morty is surprisingly more concerned for Rick than himself.

"But I like this too. I always like when you're nice to me."

The words are too personal, too true in Morty's heart, but his filter is under maintenance and he still feels weird. The brunet decides that it doesn't really matter. The worst Rick can do is tease him and then just not give him this sort of treatment again. Which, all things considered, doesn't feel like that big of a loss considering he's never had it before now anyway.

With that thought in mind, Morty simply drapes himself halfway over the tub, enjoying the cool porcelain against the phantom heat still radiating from the wax that'd been dripped on and peeled from his skin.

Letting Morty rest in the water a minute, Rick steps away, running a final reassuring hand through the boy's hair. Kneeling by the tub hasn't done his aching joints any favors, and even as he cleaned Morty up he still felt filthy. Ignoring the crusty washcloth floating in the tub, and the sickly pink tint the bathwater has taken on, Rick stretches and stands up in search of a new one.

Scrubbing roughly at his own chest, Rick grimaces down at the mess of dried blood and come tangled in his pubes. Fuck, it looks like a crime scene.

_Can't rape the willing, Ricky boy._

_He doesn't know what the fuck he wants._

Rick rifles through the first aid supply on hand in the medicine cabinet and snorts at the pitiful selection of painkillers. No antibacterials either. He'll just pour a shot of vodka over the cuts on his shoulders later. He can probably spare one.

_But he said he liked it._

_He's high out of his mind right now, and I intend to follow his example as soon as possible._

He considers joining Morty in the tub to try and soak out some of the ache in his muscles, and wipe the last layer of grime from his skin. As soon as he looks over though, he knows he couldn't bring himself to invade the tiny sanctuary he's managed to create for the teen. Morty's eyes are slipping closed as his head lolls against his arms, and Rick is full of fantasies of sliding into that warm water with its fading layer of bubbles behind him, of wrapping his arms around that too-small chest and burying his nose against that set of teeth marks the serum wasn't quite strong enough to erase entirely.

Instead he clears his throat lowly, and fixes what he hopes is a comforting smile on his face when he gains Morty's heavy-eyed attention.

“Hey Morty, ready for bed?”

There’s something about Rick's smile that seems fake. The expression feels wrong somehow, like the tilt of Rick's lips and the softness of his voice are more of a distraction than a genuine display of how he actually feels, but Morty isn't surprised.

Rick so rarely put his actual emotions on display. Morty doesn’t expect this time to be much different.

And really, in the state of mind he’s in, who’s he to judge how things actually are? His own perceptions are wracked with inaccuracy. His thoughts are the unreliable narration of his own story and, all things considered, Morty tries not to put too much stock in them. Instead, Morty occupies himself with the crackle of popping bubbles as he moves and the ripple in the water around him. He focuses on how heavy he feels as he stands.

Water rolls off his skin effortlessly, dripping back into the tub to become a single entity once more, and when Morty steps out he’s surprised to realize just how sore his muscles are. The physical signs are gone but the pain is still there. It’s hidden under the surface, like a well concealed secret, and it reminds Morty of his well-hidden relationship with Rick. Like unseen strain hidden under re-knitted skin, their family looks just as normal from the outside.

Morty makes a pleased sound when Rick wraps him up in a towel and he burrows into it. The fabric is soft but still partially coarse against his skin. Morty doesn't hesitate to gently rub it against his cheek as he trots along beside Rick, not wanting the older man to leave without him. He idly wonders about the tub, wonders if Rick will go back to drain it or if he'll just leave it for somebody else to deal with. It seems like something he should be worried about but, if Rick doesn't care, then Morty doesn't have the capacity to care about it either.

When they arrive at his bedroom Rick opens the door for him but Morty doesn't cross the threshold immediately. His room feels alien, too chilly compared to the bathroom, not nearly as dark or intimate as Rick's. He always feels like a child here, surrounded by half the stuff he'd grown up with just rearranged to make the room look like it has character. Like he has character. Now though, looking at it through whatever filter has settled over his eyes since he broke apart in Rick's arms, Morty doesn't see character at all. He sees loneliness. He sees the remnants of early adolescence and small pieces of himself that he still carried -- his love of space, his Rick-based enjoyment of science, his sentimentality -- but nothing more than that.

The room lacks direction. It lacks confidence just as much as Morty does, and suddenly it feels like a far more accurate description of his mind than Morty wanted to think about.

Not wanting to be alone just yet, Morty tests the boundaries of Rick's patience and asks, "Will you tuck me in and sit with me for a minute? It's okay if you don't want to. I know you're busy, Rick."

Morty doesn't even look at him when he makes his pitifully reasonable request. Rick's chest hurts just a little. Jesus, is he really still coming off as that much of an asshole? He knows he fucked up, but he's really trying here. It isn't exactly as if he's sending the kid off to bed without dinner- wait, shit. That’s exactly what he’s doing. He completely forgot.

“Of course, Morty. I was planning on it. I was just going to run downstairs and grab us something to eat. Can you wait here for me?”

Morty nods, tension suddenly lining his shoulders again as Rick gives them a squeeze before he steps through the doorway. Rick turns and walks as quickly as could still be written off as nonchalance to an outside observer. He doesn't look through the doorway of his bedroom as he passes, despite the lure of pants, a mostly full flask, and his portal gun. He can feel a prickle on the back of his neck as he passes, catching a splash of red from the corner of his eye. 

Wandering through the kitchen Rick grabs a couple bottles of water and a can of soda from the fridge, pouring through the cupboards for something with moderately more nutritional value than a wafer cookie or sugared cereal. Eventually he finds a battered orange and a couple of granola bars. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but it's better than nothing. He debates calling for inter-dimensional takeout but the eerie silence from upstairs makes him decide on speed rather than quality.

He's about to slam the door to his cupboard shelf closed when he stops and grabs the bottle of single malt he's been saving from the back. Seems as good an occasion as he's going to get.

Climbing back up the stairs is a bitch between the cold of the drinks against his bare stomach and the protest of his joints. Fuck, he should have grabbed the kid some better painkillers from the garage. Oh well. Dropping the bottle of whiskey on the ground outside of Morty's door, he sticks his head through the door and grins.

“Oh shit, I got the snacks, dawg!”

Morty's curled into a ball on his bed, knees tight against his chest beneath the covers, and he looks more than a little stunned that he came back. Rick decides not to take it personally. He's had his fill of that tonight.

Walking through the door, he drops his armful of mediocre provisions in the center of the bedspread, and hip checks Morty further towards the wall so he can sprawl on top of the blankets next to him. At least it looks like Morty's still naked too. Seeing the teen in pajamas always makes him feel like more of a pervert than he usually does, and that's kind of the theme of tonight's party already.

Morty waits for Rick to get settled in beside him, watching as he props a pillow up behind his back and sits up against the wall. Rick somehow manages to look both tense and at ease simultaneously. It takes less than a minute for the older man to get comfortable but, to Morty, it feels like far longer than that.

The moment Rick settles in, Morty leans up against him. He nestles in against the side of Rick's leg and rests his cheek on his grandpa's thigh, smiling to himself at the soft tickle of hairs against his cheek. Maybe it should seem more sexual than it is, especially considering that they’re both naked and his face is less than a foot away from Rick's uncovered dick, but the moment doesn't feel sexual in the slightest and Morty enjoyed that facet of... Whatever this is.

Morty jumps a little when Rick's fingers touch his face, not expecting the contact, but he falls into the sensation almost immediately. Rick's fingers are light against the side of his cheek, fleeting as they ghost over his skin, like he’s tracing his features, and when Rick's thumb brushes over the tips of his eyelashes Morty has the strangest urge to simply lean in and nuzzle at Rick's partially open palm.

He doesn't though.

It feels too intimate, like something lovers would do. Morty tries to ignore the ache in his chest that comes along with that distinction and why it doesn't apply to them in the least.

As if Rick can sense his mood, the older man runs his fingers through Morty's curls just the way he likes and the anxiety building up inside recedes just as quickly as the fleeing tide.

"You hungry, Morty?" Rick asks.

The teen opens his mouth to say no, not feeling hungry in the least, but the moment food legitimately crosses his mind Morty suddenly realizes how starving he is.

"Yeah, a-actually." Morty replies, watching with greedy eyes as Rick reaches out to pick up the orange he'd brought from downstairs.

Watching Rick peel an orange is a surprisingly mesmerizing sight. He doesn't peel it in chunks like most people do. He peels it in a thin spiral, starting from near the top and working his way down, and when he gets to the middle he rips the curling peel and sets it aside. Morty is confused as to why he's stopped in the middle so suddenly but, when Rick gently coaxes the orange open, removing the core and helping to loosen the sections up, he realizes that his grandfather has effectively made a small fruit bowl with half the rind still intact.

It’s totally unexpected and Morty continues to remain in awe of it right up until Rick wiggles one of the pieces free and offers it to him with his fingers.

He could take it of course. He could easily feed it to himself but it’s so much easier to just lean forward and bite off half of it while the end is pinched between Rick's fingers.

And Rick doesn't seem to mind. At least Morty doesn't think he does.

Sweet flavor bursts to life across Morty's taste buds and the brunet hums in pleasant satisfaction, quickly chewing and swallowing before eagerly going for the second bite. His lips brush Rick's fingertips as he steals the second half and, for no reason other than the fact that he wanted to, Morty finds himself licking his lips as he pulls back for that exact reason. The pads of Rick's fingers taste bitter from the rind but Morty doesn’t mind. Rick himself is a bit bitter, like strong coffee or unsweetened cocoa, and the teen finds the taste more appropriate than he should.

They remain quiet for what feels like a long series of moments, each portion of time measured by how long it takes for Morty to finish each slice of orange. It feels comfortable like that, almost as if it’s a necessity to his enjoyment, but in the end Morty longs for the roughness of Rick's voice.

He longs for it almost as much as he desires the answers to his unspoken questions.

"Hey Rick?"

Rick acknowledges him with a sound, opening the floor to whatever he wants to say, but Morty doesn't speak up right away. He takes his time. He steals the last bite of orange from between Rick's fingers instead and, allowing himself to be just the slightest bit bold, he brushes the very tip of his tongue against Rick's pointer finger as he sucks the bite free of his companion's hold.

Morty chews, considering his question with care, but when it comes right down to it there is no gentle way to ask what he wants to know. He can't put it lightly, can't phrase it better, all he can do is ask and wait for an answer. Though, Morty has a feeling that Rick will appreciate his bluntness far more than he would've enjoyed any sort of beating around the bush.

"Am I a freak, Rick? F-for y'know, liking that stuff from earlier? Am I..." _Am I broken?_

Morty closes his eyes.

"Is there something wrong with me, Rick?"

Rick stares as the unreality of the situation starts to sink in. He's been fucking his definitely-no-longer virginal teenage grandson six ways to Sunday for months, and those are probably some of the less questionable positions he’s put the kid in during their time together. He's turned the kid into a thief, a hell of a liar, a spree killer, a smuggler, a polyglot, an unlicensed paramedic, a nihilist, an accessory and accomplice to a laundry list of Rick's own felonies, and apparently somewhere along the lines, a hell of a masochist. And now the little minx is licking and nipping at his fingers like he wants to start something again.

He can't help it anymore. He laughs.

Morty flinches at the sound, but his eyes fly open as he watches Rick laugh low and deep, shoulders shaking, stomach twisting, the whole nine yards.

Rick clasps a heavy hand on the back of Morty's skull, dissolving into something suspiciously similar to giggles.

“Yeah, you're a freak, kid. But there's nothing wrong with that.”

A wide smile breaks out across Morty's face at Rick's response to his question.

Everything is fine.

He is a freak, yes, acknowledged and confirmed by Rick, but somehow that’s easier to swallow. Morty doesn't know how he would've reacted if Rick tried to sell him some bullshit about being normal. It’d be a lie and Morty knows it. Wanting to be cut up and getting off on that sort of thing isn't normal. Normal people didn't think about that type of shit.

But he and Rick had never really been normal to begin with.

It wasn't normal to rip through the fabric of space and simply walk through it. It wasn't normal to converse with alien races on a daily basis, wasn't normal to constantly worry about another outbreak of highly infectious, memory crafting brain parasites. It wasn't normal to be in a deeply problematic and incestuous relationship with a family member. Especially one that could've been his father twice over.

But that was just them and it had been for a long time.

And Rick says it’s okay.

Rick wouldn't lie to him, not while he was so obviously vulnerable. Rick is an asshole but he isn't a monster and Morty trusts him.

Wiggling an arm behind Rick's back and around his waist, Morty captures his grandfather in a partially awkward hug and nuzzles his little face into the older man's side.

Relief courses through Morty's veins and he can physically feel the tension fleeing his body like shadows from the rising sun. Rick, for as callous and emotionally constipated as he can be, seems to always know just what to say when it really matters.

"Thanks, Rick." Morty mumbles, smiling to himself as he releases his grandpa and settles back against his thigh. He stretches out, sprawling shamelessly across the majority of his small twin bed as he hugs Rick's thigh and looks up at the man in question with a sleepy, trusting little smile.

"Will you feed me granola too?"

Still chuckling, Rick reaches down for the pile of food, bringing up a bottle of water.

“Sure, Morty. Just drink some water first.”

The kid is practically a puddle against his leg now, and it looks like he's twenty seconds from REM sleep. Rick's dick resolutely does _not_ twitch at the sight of his pliable and warm body, smiling into his hip like he's the world's boniest teddy bear. He's also definitely not affected by the easy way Morty stretches his neck and effortlessly chugs most of the bottle Rick places to his lips, like his gag reflex and the need to breathe are both minor annoyances that he worked out long ago. ...Well, obviously not too long ago.

Pulling the bottle back, Rick drains the last of it before chucking it to the floor. He reaches for the granola bar to unwrap it, when he notices Morty's breathing has gone slack. Looks like the kid's finally passed out.

Sliding his leg free, the teen protests in his sleep, trying to tighten his grip. Rick manages to slip off the side of the bed, and scoops Morty up again before settling him further under the covers. He leaves the remaining drinks and granola bars on the nightstand and chucks the orange slices in the trash by Morty's unused desk. Looking back as he flips off the light, he sees Morty curl around his pillow, holding it tightly in the same way he had Rick's leg a minute before.

Rick closes the door quietly, and grabs the single malt from the carpet as he trods back to his room. The red wax of the bottle's seal cracks and joins the rest of the white flakes and red stains littering the floor.


	2. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for chapter two taking so long! This poor chapter has been stuck in editing and beta limbo for literal months, and we're both delighted that it's finally seeing the light of day.
> 
> Please note that fic tags have been updated. However, there is one instance of self-harm that we made the decision not to tag the fic as a whole for in this chapter for reasons. If you are concerned about potentially being triggered, additional details are available in the chapter notes at the end.

It’s been four days since that night.

Three days since he woke up and found Rick missing.

Two days since he found the courage to go in Rick's room without permission, finding all evidence of what happened gone and swept under the rug.

One day since he started entertaining the idea that Rick might not come back.

Morty steadily wears a hole in the carpet of his room as he paces back and forth, ruining his fifteen day streak of not biting his fingernails. He has no idea where Rick is, no idea where he could've gone, and Morty is starting to feel like he’s slipping away. He hasn't gone to school, hasn't left the house, hasn't eaten more than he has to, and all he thinks about is Rick. Rick and where he might be. As terrible as it is, it’s a good enough distraction for not thinking about how pathetic he is for crumbling without RIck in such a short amount of time.

His thoughts start off simple enough, as they have the past couple of days. He runs though all the obvious ideas he’s already considered -- Rick went to the liquor store and got sidetracked, Rick is out on business, Rick is meeting with a shady contact he doesn't want Morty to accidentally end up crushing to death in a random Federation outpost. Then come the more obscure ideas -- Rick is trapped in some unfortunate circumstance after a solo adventure gone awry, Rick ran into Unity somehow and is currently engaging in God knows what with whatever the entity managed to assimilate for him this time, Rick fucked up his portal gun and is trying to fix it. He’s even entertaining the standard worst-case scenario ideas more frequently than he has before -- Rick is in prison, Rick is dead, Rick fled to another dimension without him.

But then, as he paces and tries not to let his thoughts wander too far, the darker ideas he tries to avoid come to light. They’re the type of ideas that creep through his mind like a cancer, infecting everything and making Morty feel even crazier than he already does. He thinks that maybe Rick doesn't want to deal with such a freakishly complicated Morty so he went and found a new family instead. A family with a regular, _vanilla_ Morty that wouldn't ask to be cut up like a piece of meat. Maybe the Rick that hurt him wasn't his Rick at all, maybe they were an imposter that'd taken one last jab at the rogue while they still could as his Rick was laying mangled and half dead in a ditch somewhere. Maybe Rick was reaffirming his edge of control by staying away and driving Morty out of his mind until he could come back and have Morty be putty in his hands for fear that he'd leave again.

Maybe none of what he remembered actually happened and Rick is just out being Rick.

Unease sweeps through Morty to the point where it leaves him physically nauseated. His midsection is cramping, twisting hard enough to make the teen legitimately worry about losing the contents of his stomach, and, to distract himself further, Morty forces his mind back to the morning after his last night with Rick. He immerses himself in it, reliving those early moments of naivety over Rick’s absence while also denying that he’s also trying to remember anything his past self might have missed.

_He was met with the smell of buttermilk pancakes._

_Even from all the way upstairs, he can make out the tantalizing aroma of melted butter and warm syrup. A loud rumble from his belly brought back the reality of his desire for food and, in a surprisingly good mood even where good moods are concerned, Morty chuckles as he throws back the covers and slips into the first shirt and pair of pants he can find laying on the floor._

_He’s not sure if they look good together but, since it’s Sunday and he doesn't have anything else to do after, Morty doesn't really mind and he treks downstairs with a pep in his step._

_He feels lighter than he has since the very first time he slept with Rick. Morty can still remember how relieved he was then; when they’d finally stopped dancing around each other. When he was able to start thinking about his unnatural attraction to his grandpa as something shared rather than some dirty, unspoken secret that he'd probably be stuck talking about in a therapist's office thirty years down the road. At the very least, if that was the future he was doomed to experience in a couple decades, he wouldn’t have lived that shame alone. Regardless of the probability that Rick would probably be dead and buried by that point anyway._

_Even so, easy-going and undeniably eager for breakfast, Morty can't stop feeling like something fundamental has changed between last night and this morning. Everything looks the same -- same house, same family, same yellow shirt -- but it’s different somehow. It reminds him of the feeling he gets when he and Rick are forced to abandon yet another reality and relocate. The more he concentrates on it, the more it feels like a persistent hangnail in the back of his mind -- a tiny, insignificant catch that keeps reminding him that things isn't the same as they’d been the day before, or the day before that._

_Only this time, instead of something as simple as being in another reality, he's come to the unexpected internal conclusion that he’s a masochist and that he gets off on being hurt by his sadist grandfather._

_The blunt thought sends a shiver up Morty's spine. He tries to ignore the familiar stirring in his groin as he finally reaches the dining room and catches sight of his returned family. It isn't hard to ignore when he realizes that he isn't the only family member missing from the table._

_"Where's Rick?" He asks nobody in particular._

_Summer doesn't bother looking up from her phone and his dad makes some sort of noncommittal noise, one that tells Morty he doesn’t really care where Rick is and that he’s probably happier than a pig in shit to enjoy his breakfast in peace without being belittled by his father-in-law. Neither of those answers are particularly unsurprising and Morty already half expected it from them. The teen turned to his mom. If there was anybody even half as obsessed with Rick and what he was up to enough to ask the old man where he was going, it’d be her._

_Her smile seems sympathetically apologetic though and, even before she opens her mouth, Morty is 90% sure that she doesn’t know either._

_"He hasn't come down yet, sweetie. But you know how your grandpa Rick is. He's probably just sleeping or out on some adventure. Did you check the garage?"_

_Morty nearly snaps that, no, he hasn't checked the garage already. That he's just woken up. Just come downstairs. That she should've known he hasn't checked the garage because he would've had to pass right by her to do so. But he refrains._

_Instead, Morty takes her not so subtle suggestion and pads barefoot through the kitchen, poking his head out into the garage in search of Rick. His stomach twists a bit when he doesn't see him, but Morty assures himself that it’s fine. The ship is still in the garage and all of Rick's stuff is still there. He’s probably just sleeping._

_But that doesn't quell his fear._

_Morty tries to reassure himself regardless. He makes an effort not to be anxious as he returns to the dining room, sitting down at his usual spot like it’s any other day. When he looks down at his pancakes, he feels Rick's absence more heavily than even a moment ago. Pancakes are Rick’s favorite and, without him there, Morty is forced to admit that they don't look nearly as appetizing as they smelled from upstairs. The teen idly hopes, for the sake of his appetite, that Rick will suddenly appear with a witty joke and a snide comment for his dad but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards._

_As the minutes tick by and the family slowly starts to drift away from the table one by one, each going about their respective days, Morty decides to stop holding his breath for Rick to reappear and he trudges into the kitchen to scrape his plate. His pancakes are far beyond that critical point of syrup absorption by the time they meet the trash._

The memory is just as unhelpful as it was the first time he recalled it and Morty reaches up with shaky hands to gingerly prod at the spot on his shoulder, going from anxious to panicked when the dull, aching pain he's been using to remind himself of the other night turns out to be nothing more than the slightest twinge of discomfort. Morty's eyes dart over to the orange peels he'd pulled from the trash like the pathetic, needy soul that he is. He re-imagines Rick's fingers, imagines them peeling it so steadily just above him, imagines him being fed the fleshy inside, but a flicker of doubt niggles in the back of Morty's head.

It asks him why Rick would do such a thing. Why he'd be nice, why he'd peel something as meaningless as an orange with such poise and grace. It whispers doubt into his ear more easily than the serpent to Eve and, as Morty starts to legitimately wonder if he'd simply imagined it, if it’d all been a dream, he feels himself sink that much deeper into uncertain instability.

 

* * *

 

If you're a Rick, and you want to go on a self-destructive bender without the hassle of actually finding a shithole with adequately strong liquor, drugs, or whatever other vice you're intent on overindulging in to numb the fucking noise in your head, there's no better place than Sector 7S in the Citadel of Ricks.

Or at least, that's what the brochures say.

And it's true. The drinks are strong as shit, the drugs are pharmacy-grade pure, nobody sticks their fucking nose in your business, and 'over-serving' laws are non-existent.

It's a little bit like Disneyland though, in a way. You're less likely to end up lying dead in a ditch than if you'd pulled that shit anywhere else. You'll just wake up in a Citadel medical facility with a smirking Rick cracking shots about how he's had Mortys that can handle their liquor better.

The other thing about going on a self-loathing bender in the Citadel of Ricks is that you have to stare at your own fucking face the entire time. You can't get away from it. But you can usually find another Rick in the exact same state that's willing to mutually try to kick your teeth in behind the bar.

So in the end, Sector 7S - or the Seven Sins District as it's rather hackily nicknamed - appeals mainly to a certain kind of Rick, looking for a very specific type of bender. Rick chose it over some other popular options for a single reason: you'll almost never see a Morty in Seven Sins. As deep as a Rick's self-destructive tendencies go, a Morty's trained and ingrained survival instincts have them staying as far as possible from a place where instability is encouraged to thrive.

“Are you Rick C-137?”

Rick groans, not pulling his head from the sticky bar where he's sat for... three? Four days? Fuck, this place is worse than Vegas for keeping track of time.

“Look buddy, f-find some other Rick to knock some teeth out for your pretty necklace. I'm tired and my knuckles are still fucked up from the last guy.”

There's no reply, but the presence behind him doesn't vanish, just moves closer and settles beside him.

“What're you, a fucking Jerry? I said piss off, I'm not open for business.”

“Well that's a shame,” the voice says, now close enough to his elbow that he could probably just jab back with it and knock the wind out of this asshole. Cracking open one eye, Rick's vision swims as he sees a Morty perched on the bar stool next to him, waving down the robot serving as a bartender.

“Because I am. Open for business, that is.”

Rick sits up, rolling the knots out of his scabbed shoulders, and assesses the Morty at the bar next to him as he knocks back the rest of his whiskey.

Plain yellow t-shirt and jeans, short hair, no makeup or jewelry. He probably even has on boring cotton boxers if he's bothering to wear underwear.

“Aren't you a little plain to be a whore? I thought most of you Hooker Mortys specialized.”

“A maid costume is a lazy substitute for acting skill. Plus, those garters chafe like a bitch.”

The teen accepts the coke the bartender sets before him. Rick didn't notice if there's anything added to it or if it's just a chaser. Taking a sip, the Morty doesn't look at him as he asks, “Aren't you going to ask me my dimension number?”

“What's your dimension number?”

Turning to face Rick, the Morty gazes up through dark eyelashes and adds a slight quaver to his steady voice. “W-whatever you want it to be, Grandpa Rick.”

Rick barks out a laugh. It's said with the dry, biting humor of a veteran whore, and damned if he doesn't like it.

“You know who I am though.”

“Well of course,” the Morty says, gesturing to the Bartender to refill Rick's glass. “You're the Rogue.”

Accepting the drink without a comment, Rick relaxes and leans back against the bar.

“So what brings you to this neck of the woods then?” There are plenty of Red Light Districts all over the Citadel, each of varying levels of repute, but 7S is the kind of place where Ricks would rather beat the hell out of each other until the loser finds himself choking on the victor's cock. There's no money to be made, and plenty of opportunities to damage the merchandise.

“You, of course. One of my regulars came to see me with a busted jaw and three cracked ribs yesterday, thought it would make it slightly more impressive if I knew the Rogue was the one who did it.”

Rick snorts. Not at the idea of trying to impress a hooker, he could definitely see that this Morty had his charms, but at the pathetic attempt to turn a beatdown into a brag. “Well I hope you charged him extra.”

The Morty laughs, pushing his drink away and turning to place a hand high enough on his thigh to be an unmistakable invitation.

“Enough to earn you a freebie. How about it?”

 

* * *

 

After a few more hours of internal debate, Morty stands outside Rick's bedroom door, staring at the plain, unassuming wood as he tries to figure out what the fuck he’s doing and why.

It makes sense for Rick to be off somewhere. It makes sense that he'd be pickled at the bottom of some bottle or neck-deep in the equivalent of alien pussy. It makes sense for him to be dead or lost or trying as hard as he possibly can to avoid responsibility. What _doesn't_ make sense, though, is for Morty to even entertain the idea that his last encounter with Rick had never happened and was just a dream, further gaslighting himself into the depths of ridiculous idiocy. And yet, of all the ideas he's rolled around his head, that’s the one that sticks. That’s the one that really set him on edge and makes him feel like he’s about to break out in a cold sweat any second. It’s the one he fears the most.

So maybe he’s there for proof. Maybe he wants to find something that says ‘what happened was real.’ Maybe he wants to be close to Rick somehow, or maybe he just wants to know that the release he felt after being hurt wasn't something he made up or imagined. Morty doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, and as he reaches out and opens the door, taking a single step inside Rick’s room and shutting it behind him, he lets that uncertainty guide him.

The room is clean, of course, just as he had known it would be. It isn't _clean,_ clean. Not tidy. It’s free of blood, clean. Lacking even a single flake of wax, clean. Clean in the sense that if he was anybody else he wouldn't have the faintest idea of what went on in this room just a few days prior.

Morty swallows heavily, trying not to think about what'd happen if he really was just living in some fucked up daydream.

He tries to distract himself from that, getting on his hands and knees to search for even a hint of blood in the carpet. He keeps his mutinous thoughts at bay by hunting for the knife and the used candles, anything that'd convince him that he isn't a nutcase.

But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the marks on his legs.

Biting his lip, Morty stands from where he’s kneeled down on the carpet, ignoring the throb of renewed life and blood flow to his legs as he takes a seat on the edge of Rick's cot.

There’s a part of him, a small part but a part nonetheless, that knows his paranoia isn't entirely about Rick. Morty knows at least a portion of his fear is about him -- his worries, his insecurities -- but it was far easier for him to put the blame on Rick and make him the focus instead. Rick is always the center of everything else, so why should this be any different?

But maybe he doesn't need Rick. Not for the sort of vindication he desires.

Morty barely hesitates before standing up and removing his pants, only doing so for the illusion that he actually has enough self control to think about his actions. The teen sits down and spreads his legs almost immediately, feeling a crashing wave of relief go through him when he finds the fading cuts on his thigh once more. They’re thankfully still there but Morty knew that wouldn't last long. The marks will be gone soon and, thanks to Rick's stupid serum, Morty knows they won't leave a scar. His skin will be just as creamy and unblemished as it'd been before everything happened and that, though incredibly handy for the majority of their other adventures, is the very last thing Morty wants.

He wants those marks, wants to remember what happened. He wants the mental release that'd followed just after his orgasm and the memory of Rick looming over him, looking like he's hit the jackpot on his first spin. He wants confirmation. He wants physical proof that he isn't making it up. And he doesn't want the potential for what'll happen when those signs are gone and he’s left wondering if any of it happened. Especially without Rick there to confirm or deny.

Mouth dry, Morty prods at the faint marks just as he'd done with his neck, imagining there was more pain, more time, than there actually was. But he knows better. They'll be gone by tomorrow, maybe the next day at most, and he'll probably never see them again. If Rick comes back and he asks about it, there’s the very real possibility that Rick could just raise half a brow and ask him what the hell he was talking about. And Morty would have nothing to refute that denial.

The miniature nightmare has Morty right on the edge of hyperventilating but, as he looks to the side and catches the shiny glint of a razor blade from of the corner of his eye, he stills. It’s just sitting there, clean and ready to be used to scrape the protective coating off the ends of Rick's wires. The wickedly sharp edge make him feel curiously elated.

Morty's frantic heart calms.

If Rick isn't there to soothe him, then he'll find his own form of comfort. 

 

* * *

 

Morty gasps as his back is slammed against the wall of his apartment, digging his heels in deeper to the curve of Rick's ass as C-137 fucks up into him for the third time that night.

Rick snarls as short nails dig into his shoulders in exactly the same place they had days earlier, reopening closing scabs and sending a drop of either sweat or blood down the center of his back. Squeezing again at the darkening bruises that litter the Morty's hips, he raises a hand to slam it around the teen's neck, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly on a cork-board.

Green eyes blown out to the size of saucers bore into Rick's, and a vicious grin rips across the boy's face, the expression far more victorious than anyone in his position has any sane right to look.

“Fuckin', just _do it_ already, Rick. Don't be a pussy!”

Scabbed knuckles tighten around a pale throat with no hesitation, barely allowing the coarse drag of air for a second or two before closing it off completely. Even without air, Morty keens high in his throat, and Rick can feel it vibrating through the vocal cords beneath his palm.

Rick curses, and drives his hips faster into the incredible heat above him. He isn't going to last much longer, but Morty is dragging his eyes back from their spot in the back of his skull and looking at him pleadingly, even as his lips turn purple. Rick can trace the pattern of bursting blood vessels making their way like freckles across his cheekbones.

Without a moment's thought, he pulls his hand from Morty's throat and backhands him as hard as he can. The teen's head slams to the side of the wall with enough force to reverberate down his spine. Morty comes as he sucks in a desperate, rasping breath, clenching hard around Rick's cock and digging his nails even deeper into those forming crescent-shaped scars, dragging Rick over the edge behind him.

 

* * *

 

Poised on the edge of Rick's bed with a newly sterilized blade in one hand and the other pulling his skin taut, Morty is having a hard time focusing.

The tension coursing through his body feels different than the danger of the blade Rick wielded. He’s less turned on for sure, his dick barely interested, and Morty isn't sure that he can go through with his experiment. It feels weird to be the one in control, to be the one in charge of his own sensation, and Morty tries not to think about how much he wishes it was Rick.

Morty clenches his jaw at that last stray bit of thought. He doesn't need Rick. If Rick isn't gonna be here to help him figure this shit out then he doesn't need him anyway.

Fueled by his unanticipated anger for Rick and the indignance he feels at being alone after such a startling revelation, Morty drags the edge of the blade straight down the middle of the lone wide cut.

Pink lips part in a sharp gasp and Morty stares as his skin parts, watching as blood beads to the surface and spills out, a bright splash of color against ivory skin. The pain isn't as dulled by need this time but Morty knows his dick is starting to get interested and, determined to push forward, Morty drags the blade lightly over the top of the open wound once more.

Already he's made the cut deeper than Rick did the other night and that edge of control, that difference between the two situations, is like gas on the smoldering coals of a haphazardly banked fire.

Clasping the blade between his fingers, staring at the part in his skin, Morty idly starts thinking of what he’s doing as him being willing to do what Rick wouldn't, what Rick _couldn't._ In the sanctum of his own mind, Morty imagines how fucked up he has to be to find the edge of Rick's limits, to out-do his deranged grandfather in a ‘ _Who's Kinkier’_ contest, and he owns it. He lets the seedy rush of victory drive him to trace over one of the other fading marks, going two cuts deep on the first try, and he groans, watching the blood start to drip down his thigh and onto Rick's carpet.

Now he has proof. All the proof he could ever need. There’s no way he made it up, no way he could be this warped or unpromptedly creative. Rick was creative. Rick knew what to do. Rick showed him the way. But Morty doesn't need Rick. Not right now.

Morty bites his lip. His attention is caught between the trickle of blood flowing freely and the sudden straining interest of his erection behind his underwear as his stolen blade remains poised over one of the other cuts, ready to go for round three.

 

* * *

 

Rick collapses back on the bed that dominates the small studio apartment, and the Morty falls off to lay beside him, coughing slightly and laughing emptily at the ceiling. Glancing over at the bruised frame beside him, Rick has that same slight itch under his skin telling him to wrap the boy in his arms until their breathing returns to normal. It's easier this time to ignore it.

A small hand gestures loosely at the bedside table. “Can you pass me a cigarette?”

Obligingly, Rick sits up, switching on the lamp as he digs through the pile of condoms, lube, and nipple clamps in the nightstand drawer until he finds the battered pack. Slipping two out, he fishes for a lighter in his abandoned lab coat before turning back to the boy on the bed and stopping short.

In the light cutting through the shadowed apartment, Rick can clearly see for the first time that Morty's chest and legs are littered with crisscrossing scars. Some are white and faded with age, while others are still raised, red and angry. Realizing he's staring, Rick sticks the cigarettes in his mouth, lighting them before passing one to the teen on the bed and laying down again.

The Morty smirks and takes a long drag, immediately falling into a coughing fit as it burns against his abused throat. Rick raises an eyebrow as he watches. “You sure it's a good idea to smoke right now?”

The kid sucks in another lungful of smoke, nodding tightly before coughing it out. “Oh yeah, if I do it right I'll feel it for hours.”

“Suit yourself,” Rick snorts, stubbing out his half-used cigarette on the nightstand and standing in search of his pants.

A voice rises from the bed behind him. “You can ask, you know.”

He pointedly ignores it, shrugging on his undershirt and looking for his socks. Sighing, the prostitute sits up, and points him in the right direction.

“You know, most Ricks aren't total assholes. They just want a Morty to hop on their dick and beg for their approval. Maybe spank me a little once in a while to watch me squirm. Which isn't bad, it pays the bills. It's just not my bag. I'm so glad I heard you were in town.”

His sweater has a hole in it, but he throws it on as quickly as he can while the Morty on the bed continues.

“It's been a while since I had a Rick that was total bastard.” Green eyes go dreamy and a little unfocused. “My Rick was like that.”

Shrugging on his lab coat, Rick opens a portal and sneers back at the boy on the bed.

“So nice to know I can live up to a Rick that leaves his Morty looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

The hooker stares at him uncomprehendingly for a second, before starting to laugh.

“You think he did this to me? Oh, honey, no.”

The Morty takes the smoldering stub of his cigarette and jams the lit end into his shoulder, hissing as the smell of sizzling flesh permeates the room.

“I did this to myself.”

Rick turns and flees through the portal so fast he can still smell the scent of singed hair when he steps through into his room.

...And face-to-face with his Morty, sitting on Rick’s bed with one hand clasping a razor blade and the other digging fingertips into a bleeding gash on his leg.

Time is suspended in that moment, like the entire multiverse is holding its breath around them as Morty stares at Rick with wide, startled eyes.

He hadn't expected him to just appear. Which, in retrospect, feels exceedingly dumb since that's what Rick does, but still. He hadn't expected it, hadn't expected Rick to see him this way, hadn't expected to be caught in the older man's room with blood on his hands and fear in his face.

He'd been too hasty in his decision to jump right in. He should've waited, but as Morty thinks about how much time he'd already spent waiting without answers, his face screws up in a frown.

That shift - the transition from startled to upset - seems to snap Rick out of whatever thoughts he’s currently having and suddenly the older man is all but yelling at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He snaps, on edge and obviously perturbed, but Morty doesn't care.

He doesn't need to explain himself to Rick. Hell, if anybody should be explaining, it should be Rick. Rick is the one who left for three days without a word. Rick is the one who left him, confused and at the mercy of his own mind. Rick is -

Finally yelling.

"Morty! I asked you a - a fucking question! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Morty's resolve over staying silent - playing the sullen and unspokenly wronged teenager - suddenly snaps. In less than a second, Morty’s leaping to his feet. He’s glaring up at Rick, angry, hurt, and ready to go toe-to-toe if that's really what Rick wants, entirely oblivious to the blood running down his leg.

"I'm dealing with th-th-the mess you abandoned me in you inconsiderate dick! What the fuck are _you_ doing, huh? Wh-where have you been? Probably having a-a-a - a grand ol' time while I was stuck here losing my goddamn mind and trying to - to figure out what the hell to do with myself!"

In a flash Rick's hand shoots out and wraps around Morty's wrist, digging his thumb into the back of his ring finger and twisting, breaking the teen's grip on the razor still clutched, forgotten, in his balling fist. Rick almost breaks his hand, too, and Morty cries out as the bones in his hands grind together, forcing his posture into an awkward hunch to prevent his wrist from snapping.

“You stupid little _shit_ ,” Rick seethes, barely seeming to notice the tears starting to well in Morty's eyes. “You don't know what the _fuck_ you're doing. You really want to bleed out on this shitty carpet so fucking bad?”

Morty isn't looking at him, and Rick drops the portal gun to grab his chin, forcing his eyes towards him with a little extra pressure on his joints.

“I leave you alone for a couple of days and you end up cutting yourself like a- like a fuckin'-”

_Like a 15 year old with a shitty home life and abuse issues._

“Like a fuckin' what, Rick? Huh? _Like a fuckin' what!"_ Morty yells right back, irate tears scalding his face as they escape the corner of his eyes and fall down his face.

Taking advantage of the fact that Rick's grip on his wrist has gone somewhat lax, Morty jerks his hand free. He tries not to think about how much he preferred having that hold now that it’s gone. Instead, he reaches out and shoves Rick with no real power behind it, feeling the walls he constructed to keep himself in line during Rick's absence start to crack.

"A-a-and what was I supposed to think, Rick! What was I supposed to do! You were gone! No -- no note, no warning. Not even a text, Rick! Nothing! And I thought.. I thought.."

Morty shakes his head, the action somewhat awkward with Rick still holding his chin, refusing to let that contact be broken.

Rick stares at Morty's face for a moment before letting go and stooping to pick up the bloodied razor and the portal gun, lying abandoned on the carpet where they fell. He sets them down with a heavy finality next to each other on the table, an unspoken, vague threat implicit in the gesture.

When he does speak again, it's quieter, calmer, but still crackling with so much barely concealed rage that it makes the air in the room feel tight.

“All right, Morty. Tell me what you thought. I'm genuinely fucking curious to know _for once_.”

Taking a deep breath, Rick gestures around the room. “Because if you were really concerned, there were a dozen fucking options you could have chosen. You could have called the Citadel of Ricks on the _phone I specifically left the family for emergencies_ . You could have asked your fucking father for the shit-eater's contact info and had him trace me. You could have just gone to your- your precious school and tried to hit on that stupid redhead in your class. But I am at a fucking _loss_ as to why, out of all those fucking options, you chose to sit on my goddamn bed and bleed yourself like stuck pig.”

There's an intensity to Rick, a blaring warning that even Morty's underdeveloped sense of body language recognition skills can see and understand, but Morty isn't backing down.

If anything, Rick's calm demeanor makes him that much angrier. And that much more honest.

"I'm here because I thought you abandoned me." Morty hisses through clenched teeth. "Because that's - that's what you do, Rick. When you don't wanna deal with something, y-y-you leave it behind like a shucked off condom and go drown in the - in the bottom of a bottle until you can swallow the guilt."

Morty barks out a laugh, the sound mean and unforgiving.

"Y-you had no issue ditching two other realities. One of them even had y-y-your real family in it, so why should I be any different? You find out your Morty is a -- is some sort of fucked up freak that you don't wanna deal with anymore so you pet my hair a-a-and feed me some oranges and then disappear and move in to some other dimension like a fucking hermit crab!"

"Is that so hard to believe, Rick? Is it!" Morty demands.

Morty doesn't wait for an answer though. Because he already knows the answer. And he’s pretty sure Rick does too. _No. No, it isn't hard to believe._

"No,” he says aloud, “It's not hard to believe. Because you've done it before. Is that what you did for my mom, Rick? Did you tuck her in, maybe bring her a - a snack, and then disappear for twenty years like it was nothing? Because that what you did to me for three days! You left without a goddamn word and didn't give a - a single shit about me or this bomb that just got dropped in my lap!"

"So I decided to figure it out myself. Without you! I don't need you t-t-to figure my shit out you flighty old fuck!"

“Noooo, Morty,” Rick drawls sarcastically, looking down at the slow stream of blood dripping from above Morty's boxers. “My mistake, you clearly don't need me here at all.”

Pulling a roll of bandages from his coat pocket, he shoves Morty in the chest, knocking him back on his ass, a harsher, less personal replication of the last time he'd tripped the boy to the same bed. Morty squirms, clearly still pissed, but he stills a little when Rick digs his fingers into his thigh warningly and starts to wrap the bandage around the bleeding limb.

“So tell me, Morty. The bomb dropped in your lap was what, exactly? That you get a hard-on when someone pulls your hair a little rougher than you'd thought you'd like? Well _excuuuse_ me for not recognizing that would shatter your world. As you so rightfully pointed out, we've changed realities a couple times now, I guess that's on me for thinking your tolerance for handling shit was a little higher. And- and in case you didn't notice, Morty? I didn't disappear for twenty years. I left for three measly Earth days. You can leave a cat to fend for itself that long, but I apologize, it was clearly too much for you.”

Tying off the bandage a little tighter than was probably necessary, Rick looks up at the teen, sprawled on the cot.

“And if I did? You should thank your lucky fucking stars if all that happened to you was getting left here. Do you-you know what they'd do to you in the Citadel, huh? Oh they'd _love_ to get a hold of _my Morty_ there. Sell you off the highest bidder and beat the shit out of you every day until you call some fat Rick-pig 'Grandaddy' while you bounce on his dick.”

Rick's voice is beginning to rise again, as he practically spits the last words at the boy beneath him. Sliding the rest of his weight onto the cot, Rick grabs ahold of Morty's chin again, and forces him to meet his gaze, inches from his face.

“But if it'll put your mind at ease, Morty. I'll tell you why you don't have to worry about that. Why I've dragged you across dimensions when I could just as easily not do it. Because you're basically _my fucking pet_ , at this point, Morty. Complete with all the whining, begging for attention, and making a fucking mess of all my shit.”

Morty's breathing hard now, but Rick can't tell if he's going to cry to take a swing at him. Tangling his fingers in the teen's hair, he yanks on it.

“Well, speak up, Morty. Is that what you want, huh? To be grandpa's pet? To sit my feet and get smacked around when you're bad and have me pet your hair and tell you you're a _good boy_ afterwards?”

"Maybe it is what I want!"

Morty hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to snap that far or speak that loudly, but the walls holding it all back are gone. They’re ash in his hands, soot against his skin that could no longer protect him, and suddenly everything is pouring out like pus from a wound left to fester for far too long.

"Is that what you wanna hear, Rick?" Morty poses heatedly. "Do you wanna hear me tell you how - how badly I want to be your little dog, Rick? Eating up scraps of attention w-w-wherever I can get them? Lapping it up like I'm starving when you humor me a-and give me a little extra?"

Morty leans forward as much as he can without actually touching his face to Rick's.

"Because I do and _I hate it."_

Breaking the intensity of their connection, Morty looks away. He glares holes in the wall, part of him wishing the entire house would just explode so he didn't have to talk about his own feelings or the laughable desires he has for somebody so unachievable.

"That's what there is, Rick." He says flatly.

There is no anger in his voice this time, no rage or resentment, just acceptance. But it’s bitter. It’s the sort of acceptance that comes with being diagnosed as a terminally ill patient, the sort of acceptance that comes with no alternative.

"That's all I'll ever be to you, Rick. Some fucking pet. A tag-along. And if I want your -- your attention and your... your fucking love, then that's what I have to do for it. Be some desperate dog at y-y-your feet."

That hurt. It hurts to know it but it hurts so much more to say, and Morty knows Rick will know it too. He can fake that sort of pain just as much as he can hide it from the man above. Which is, of course, not at all.

Tears pool in Morty's eyes and his lips quiver as he parts them to speak but he refuses to cry. He refuses to give Rick that as he says this. But he can hear it anyway, even though the tears stay firmly in place.

"I'm some plaything you drag along and taunt a-a-and use when you're bored. And I mean _nothing_ to you. Even worse is that I know it!"

Morty reaches up and wipes angrily at his eyes.

"I'm not somebody you respect, Rick. I'm not somebody you listen to o-o-or care about for more than how my presence benefits you."

Rick is too close, too close to him physically, emotionally, all of it, and Morty can feel himself getting boxed in.

Panic claws itself up his esophagus like bile and partially digested food and Morty is desperate to get away from it. In a flurry of lashed out limbs and movement, Morty kicks out and pushes Rick as far away from him as he can before clambering back, making a soft, hurt sound when his back meets the wall a short second later.

Morty pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, making himself as small as possible as he lays his forehead on his kneecaps and tries to regain control.

But his control is gone. It’s nowhere to be found, and Morty’s body is heaving like he’s sobbing even though he refuses to let the tears come.

So he tries to move away from his own insecurities, tries to move away from the heart-aching cycle of take, take, take that he has with Rick and he tries to move on to something easier. But where he ends up isn't any easier to talk about, even if it still needs to be said.

"You have no fucking idea what the other night did to me." He chokes out. "You have no idea what I was imagining while you were - while you were cutting me up like a-a piece of meat."

Morty looks up and glares at Rick from where he is, all but daring the man to try and interrupt him, but it seems that even the Rogue Rick doesn't have enough balls to do it.

"I'm used to you pulling my hair and being rough! I can handle that! But y'know what? That's different than wanting your partner to carve you the fuck up like a Christmas ham, Rick! That's different then wanting your grandpa to gut you like a-a-a fucking fish while he's balls deep inside of you!"

"You have no clue what sort o-of shit was running through my head or how much more I wanted, Rick." He whispers, feeling that truth free itself from his lips and the tip of his tongue like sharp burrs being ripped from clinging fur. "You have no - no idea how I felt when we were finished."

But then there is anger once more and Morty clings to it like a sinking lifeboat, knowing he won't win this argument anyway, no matter what he says or how right he is. There is never any winning with Rick, not really.

"You have no fucking idea how I felt and where my mind was because you shut down!" He accuses. "You opened the floor to talk a-a-and I tried to reach out and you shut me down and then shoved me in the - in the tub!"

Rick is deathly silent, his hands clenching and unclenching against the empty air beneath him, staring silently at Morty as he shakes and sobs dry, heaving breaths a foot away. Suddenly standing, he spins and storms to the other side of the room, digging through a box until he finds an unmarked bottle. Pulling out the cork with his teeth, Rick chugs a good third of it, sinking into a crouch and observing the hyperventilating teen from his perch.

“You can't - can't say shit like that, Morty. You have to- you have to stop,” he chokes out eventually. “You can't keep lying there and begging me for more when you have no idea what you're asking for.”

Even now, with the boy shaking and gasping against the wall, trying to hold himself together, that part of Rick is screaming with delight at Morty's imagery, telling him to _take, break, consume, mark, claim, Mine._

Steadying himself with another drink, Rick glares at the shaking teen. “I'm- I'm trying to protect you, you little piece of shit. And you keep begging me to rip you apart.” He doesn't break eye contact as he takes a swig, treating Morty like he's the dangerous one in the room, and continuing once the glass leaves his lips.

“And I'd put you back together, Morty. And I'd love you for letting me do it. But you- you wouldn't be the same anymore.”

The room is silent except for ragged breathing for a minute as Rick drinks and Morty struggles to regain control of his limbs.

“You were supposed to be learning to say no, to the things I want to do to you.” Rick mutters, draining the last of the bottle. “It's bad enough I did this to you, all I can do now is stop.”

Swallowing even though his mouth is dry as a bone and not the least bit interested in offering him anything to swallow, Morty holds Rick's gaze, searching, trying to _understand._ But it’s hard. He feels more confused than ever. It’s difficult to fathom the idea that Rick might've left to protect him, that he might've fled because of what Morty was offering and how badly Rick wanted to take it.

Rick isn't the sort of man that passes up what he wants. Their sexual relationship is proof of that. The way he’s speaking though - the way his words paint a scenario where Rick wants to take what’s being offered but where he chooses to restrain himself for fear of damaging his grandson instead - isn’t exactly something Morty stop trying to and twist around and misconstrue.  What Rick is admitting to is entirely unselfish, and even though Rick hasn't said anything in regard to Morty's words about his own feelings, Morty knows that isn't how Rick would treat a pet.

After a long, heavily tense and drawn out moment of consideration, Morty finally asks, "What about what I want, Rick?"

"You're talking a-about trying to teach me how to say no to you... But what about when I want to say yes? What then, Rick?"

"The entire time we've known each other you've been content to - to treat me like the village idiot, and I’ve let you, but this time can't you just acknowledge that I - that I've got valid thoughts and feelings too?"

Morty breaks eye contact momentarily and looks down at his knees, trying to sort his thoughts and figure out what he wants to say. Even after what felt like the longest thirty seconds of his life, Morty still doesn't know exactly what to say. So he just settles on whatever comes out of his mouth.

"And you're right -- I don't know what I want o-or what I'm asking," Morty admits, owning up to that portion of his own inexperience. "But I know that this, whatever it is, has already changed me, Rick. A-and it's not gonna go away... Not when I already know how it feels to have you take m-m-me apart like that."

"So I need you to either take that night out of my memories... O-or to help me figure out what I want a-and what I'm asking for."

Rick's mind screams in protest against the easy out Morty is offering him. It would be so simple. A single blast and they could go back. They could just be Rick and Morty again - adventuring by day, fooling around by night. And Rick could lock the sight of Morty, writhing in pain and begging him to flay him open more, deep in the back of his mind, only to be drudged up in the small hours of the morning on his lowest nights.

But Pandora's Box is wide open now, and Rick knows that no amount of cramming is going to be enough to shove this mess back inside. Even if he does give in, they'd just circle back around - Rick's lack of self-control forcing him to push Morty too far again, his patience with the boy crumbling a little further every time.

_He could see Morty's face, slack and shocked and so very open, every time he realized he liked what Rick was doing to him, over and over again._

It wasn't an option. Which left Morty's other ultimatum.

“Christ, Morty. You-you're not exactly jumping in the shallow end here. Can't you just- You can do some research and come to me with some questions. I can tell you what's total bullshit and what's not.”

Morty frowns, looking at Rick with a slight edge of disappointment.

Rick isn't denying him. He isn't jumping all over the idea of wiping his memory and just being done with it, but his fatally skewed moral compass is choosing a hell of a time to make itself known. Morty wishes Rick would just be selfish.

Morty does agree though. They’d jumped right into the deep end and, though the payout was great, Morty knows he wouldn't be able to handle something of that caliber again too soon. Especially not with the way he'd reacted after it was over.

So he settles for a compromise.

"Can't we just start slower a-a-and work our way back up?" He askes shyly, not meeting Rick's gaze. "I don't really want to learn this o-on my own, Rick... I want you to teach me. Like you've taught me everything else."

Rick groans, more than a little sauced now and happy to have the help for this conversation.

“Morty, I _tried._ What do you think that night was supposed to be, huh?” Staring, Rick slowly makes his way over to the boy on the bed again. Morty can barely hear him as he mutters under his breath.“You're just too fucking gorgeous when you scream.”

Morty's eyes snap forward at his movement, still avoiding his face. Rick kneels in front of the bed and reaches an unsteady hand out for the teen's knee.

“But if you're set on us doing this stupid thing, there's- there's one way that it might work.”

Green eyes suddenly bore into the back of his hand, hope rising in the teen's chest even as it mingles with trepidation.

Rick takes a deep breath, and makes his final offer.

“I can teach you how- and you can hurt me.”

That... is not what Morty was expecting.

Morty feels like he’s missing something, like there’s no possible way Rick can be suggesting what he is, but it doesn't get much plainer than that. Part of Morty wants to ask Rick how strong the shit in the bottle is and if he should be expecting to end up disarming one of his grandfather's famous bender-based neutrino bombs by the end of the night, but another part -- the bigger part -- just wants to believe it.

"You... want to give me control?" Morty asks hesitantly, trying to make sense of the situation.

Rick grins. “Anybody who wants to hit somebody but can't take a hit themselves is a little bitch and doesn't deserve your time, Morty.”

He shrugs off his lab coat, tossing it on the bed and pulling his sweater up over his head.

“That's lesson one, if you're counting.”

The wife-beater follows, until Rick is sitting back on his heels patiently, looking up at Morty with undisguised lust in his eyes.

“Lesson two is to slap me in the face as hard as you can.”

Morty's heart pounds in his chest. The continuous slam makes his ribcage feel small and vulnerable as he stares down at his grandpa, feeling like he'll break apart any moment. He feels startled by this most recent development but Morty isn't against it. To be honest, he’s more curious than anything. He hadn't expected to like being hurt. The idea of it still doesn’t make the most sense to him, but Morty liked it nonetheless. He can't explain it but the endurance satisfied him and maybe this would be close to the same.

Finally abandoning his protective position, Morty kneels beside the edge of the bed in an incredibly similar position to Rick and simply looks at him for a second. He’s fascinated by Rick's body, as he always is -- all sharp lines and clean angles, with a filigree of blood vessels standing out against pale skin here and there. It feels strange to see Rick in such a submissive position, one that he's taken up so many times in the older man's place, and Morty idly tries to imagine what the other night might've felt like if he’d have been in Rick's position.

Morty raises his hand, still hesitant.

He isn't sure he could hit Rick. He's thought about it. Hell, Morty can even admit that he's fantasized about doing it more than a few times throughout their relationship... But he's never actually entertained the idea of taking that swing. The idea simply felt so monumentally stupid that he’d never tried to risk it.

But now... Now Rick is telling him to.

No. Not telling him. Asking. Asking without actually asking. He was offering him the choice if that's what he wanted and Morty did want.

Instead of jumping into it right away though, Morty chooses to take his own path.

The teen ignores Rick's lesson and reaches out to touch his cheek. It’s too soft, too intimate, and Morty knows it, but Rick is offering him control and that's what he wants to do with it. He wants the knowledge that he can, that he can touch Rick's face just to touch if he wants to, and Morty feels a jolt of delight go through him when Rick doesn't jerk away from it.

And for that he is rewarded.

Thinking of earlier, Morty channels his own anger to suit his needs. He thinks about Rick calling him a pet. He thinks about all the times Rick degraded or belittled him, thinks about all the times he'd wanted to smack that stupid grin off his face, and then he pulls his arm back and slaps Rick across the face full force.

He can feel the resounding clap of skin-against-skin go all the way through his palm and, when Rick's head snaps to the side, Morty feels an undeniable twinge in his groin.

Rick moans a little, low and throaty. Blood rushes to his head, spreading heat across the side of his face. His head is spinning a bit at the sudden jarring motion, mixed with the liquor he'd chugged, but it wouldn't do to not give the kid some encouragement.

Clearing his throat a little, he finds his voice. “Don't- don't lock your elbow. It'll jar all the way up your arm. Keep it loose as you follow through.”

Morty is staring at him like he's never seen him before, seemingly mesmerized by the red flush covering half his jaw.

“Try to avoid my cheekbones or my ears, unless you want me to go temporarily deaf or hurt your hand.”

Rick runs a hand across his aching face, more than a little proud that the sting is still lingering. Damn, Morty had really gone for it. That was promising.

“And most people- most people you just want to slap them with your- with four fingers, not your whole hand. I kinda like it though.”

Pulling his hand away from his bruising mouth, Rick straightens his back and folds his arms behind him.

Looking up, he tongues lightly at his lips. Morty might split one yet. “Wanna try it again?”

Rick's advice is echoing in Morty’s ears, offered so calm and collected even as a flush of color rises to his face on one side. Watching the instantaneous shift, watching Rick's cheeks become mismatched, knowing one of them is dusted pink because Rick is intoxicated and the other is bright red because he'd slapped him without repercussion while Rick just sat there and took it... It’s the greatest power rush of all.

Confidence roars through Morty's veins, pounding in his ears like a bone-breaking symphony that only he can hear.

The teen licks his lips and reaches out with a surprisingly steady hand to capture Rick's chin with equally surprising gentleness. He could've been rough, he could've wrenched Rick's head from side to side and Morty had a feeling that Rick would've let him, but it feels so much better this way. He loves that it’s his choice. Everything happening right now is his choice, and that knowledge buzzes through his system like the most addicting high imaginable.

Since the start of his adventures with Rick a few years ago, he's held all sorts of power in his hands. He's tasted the morally sweet candy of saving a life and the rich, addicting darkness of taking one. He's led backward savages, raised an alien child in a day, disarmed multiple neutrino bombs thus saving the world from mass extinction many times over, but none of it compared to the rush he’s feeling now.

Using his borderline tender hold on Rick's chin, he turns the older man's face to the side and stares at the rising welt with hungry eyes. He can see the angry little red lines of his own fingers against Rick's skin and, against all odds, it makes Morty smile.

He struck Rick in the face. And not just any Rick. Rick C-137. _The Rogue Rick._ The most infamous Rick in the spectrum... He just slapped the most powerful man in the multiverse.

"I wonder what people would say if they could see you like this, Rick." He murmurs, his tone low and, at its heart, intimate. "I wonder what other Ricks would say if they could see you, th-the infamous C-137, sitting on your knees and letting your Morty do this to you."

He feels pleased that he only stuttered a single time and that just makes Morty's confidence rise up a notch higher. He tries not to get cocky though. He’s still very much a novice and, even though he has control right _now,_ he knows Rick is still the master and that he won't hesitate to pick his performance apart if Morty gives him reason to be especially nasty.

Morty releases Rick's chin for a brief moment to brush the backs of his fingers over Rick's battered cheek, a shiver running down his spine at the heat he finds there.

"Fuck." He whispers, the tail end of it partially choked.

Curious fingers capture Rick's face once more and he turns the older man's undamaged cheek towards him just a fraction. Greedy eyes roam hungrily over the blank canvas and Morty subconsciously licks his lips.

"Stay still for me..."

Exhaling slowly, Morty tries to calm his hammering pulse as he gears up for another strike. He imagines anger, just like he did before, but suddenly that doesn't feel right. Morty doesn't want to hit Rick because he’s angry. He’d done that before because the idea of hitting someone without anger fueling it felt unnatural, like his heart wouldn't be in it and he'd pull his punch if he didn't have that underlying draw, but now Morty wants to hit Rick for an entirely different set of reasons. He wants to hit him because Rick looks good with a red face and a handprint on his cheek. He wants to do it for the rush of power and the high of being in control and because finally, _finally,_ he doesn't feel like he’s stuck on the outside where Rick is concerned.

Morty pulls his arm back once more. He takes special care to leave his elbow loose and unlocked just like Rick said and, when he swings, he tries to take aim for the fleshy spot on Rick's face between his cheekbone and his jaw. Upon making contact, Morty can immediately feel the difference and he groans as he watches Rick's head snap to the side.

Heat coils up tight in Morty's belly. Before Rick can even think about recovering, the teen reaches out to wrap a demanding hand around the nape of his neck. He reels Rick in for a kiss like it’s his God-given right to do so, and, when their mouths meet and he tastes just the faintest hint of blood, Morty moans in devastating approval.

Rick tenses up under the onslaught of teeth and tongue that slam into him, fighting his instincts to meet the kiss with equal ferocity. If he’s going to give this to Morty, he going to try not to half-ass it in any way he can. Instead, he forces his muscles to go slack. He lets his aching jaw fall loose, and allowing Morty to explore his mouth in a way he hadn't since the first time the teen had worked up the courage to kiss him.

What a world of difference a few months made. Timid, sloppy licks against his lips were replaced by a demanding slide of tongue against the roof of his mouth, even as it feels like Morty is going to eat his fucking tongue straight out of his mouth.

In his enthusiasm, Rick slams his hands up on the boy's thighs, whining when Morty immediately pulls away from the kiss, hissing with displeasure. Fuck, right, hands behind his back- wait, no. That isn't it. Recognizing the texture beneath his fingers, Rick realizes he'd brought his right hand down hard directly on the bandage covering the cut on Morty's thigh.

“S-sorry, Morty,” Rick mutters, slurring the unfamiliar word over his swollen lip. “I didn't mean- I'm sorry.”

Moving his hand slowly away, trying not to jostle the wound any more than he already has, he settles it over the hand Morty still has squeezing around the nape of his neck. Morty's face seems fucking weird, and Rick doesn't want to lose the progress they suddenly seemed to be making here.

Leaning forward, he presses his face against the teen's thigh, nosing gently at the boxer cuffs above the bandages, while wrapping his fingers gently around Morty's wrist and guiding it to a new hold in his hair, high on his scalp.

Taking a risk, he laps at the blood dried in thin rivulets down towards Morty's knee. It tastes sweeter this time, without the tang of adrenaline and salt of sweat it had last time.

“Tell me- Morty. Tell me-”

_Tell me I'm a worthless piece of shit again._

_Tell me to choke on your cock until you forgive me._

_Tell me what to do to fix this._

Nimble fingers tangle themselves up in Rick's hair and, taking full advantage of the opportunity presented to him, Morty grips the blue strands near the roots and tugs Rick's head back. The angle is too far for casual eye contact but Morty knows Rick is still able to see him and, as a positively luscious bonus, it puts the long, pale column of Rick's throat on perfect display.

But Rick's open-ended sentence leaves Morty at a loss. What does Rick want him to say? What has he said once already that Rick wants him to expand on or repeat? He insulted Rick, sure... But that was when he was angry. Morty can’t deny that he is still upset about what happened but he isn't _angry._

He doesn't want to insult Rick now.

Despite speaking down to Rick before he struck him the second time, Morty has no desire to degrade of humiliate his partner in any real way, not more than calling Rick a slut or really showing off just how filthy his mouth could get. But that isn't the same, not to Morty, and if he is supposed to be learning his way then Morty already knows, right from the start, that he doesn't want to craft it out of extreme verbal degradation. Not just because he isn't feeling it now but because he doesn't like the idea of being expected to do it in the future either. He doesn't want Rick to expect that sort of treatment from him, and, unless the older man comes to him and specifically asks to be treated in such a way - which Morty is forced to admit that he probably _would_ do if Rick actually asked for it up front - then he chooses to abstain.

Or maybe that isn’t what his grandpa is asking for at all. Maybe he wants the teen to tell him more about what he'd wanted from the other night. Maybe Rick wants him to paint a striking and overly vivid picture in splashes of crimson as he weaves some raunchy, half-exaggerated tale about how he'd basically wanted Rick to flay him alive with nothing more than a pocket knife and his own crumbling will to try not to wiggle or move.

Morty doesn't know.

He's been having that thought a lot lately, that he doesn't know, and Morty has a feeling that isn't bound to change anytime soon. Especially if he continues to remain around Rick. In this case though, with the memory of Rick licking up his blood like he can't help himself burned into his brain and Rick's pleading words bouncing around his skull like a permanently ricocheting bullet, Morty tries to think about what his own needs would be if their positions were reversed. Morty doesn't know if they felt things similarly, he doesn't know what Rick needs, but he knows what he would've wanted. He knows what he desires, what he fantasizes about. What would make him want, more than anything, to serve and do anything and everything Rick wants in the pursuit for more.

So that's where he starts and if Rick doesn't like it then Morty knows his grandpa won't have a single issue with making that opinion known in a hurry.

Ignoring the persistent throb in his thigh, Morty reaches out and brushes his thumb over Rick's bottom lip, instantly taking note of the fact that it’s swollen.

The realization lights up the pleasure centers in his brain like a Christmas tree.

"Open your mouth for me, Rick."

Rick doesn't even hesitate to do as he says and the buzz of power Morty is currently experiencing gains a couple volts in intensity.

The teen slips two fingers past Rick's lips and groans as he pets the inside of his partner's mouth with them. Rick's tongue is like wet silk, soft and slick, and yet so incredibly wicked. Rick has taken him apart with it so many times... Sexually, abusively, intellectually. And he's done the same to others, _many others_ , and Morty finds that surprisingly hot.

"I wonder how many people have - have fucked your mouth, Rick." Morty muses aloud. "M-maybe I should be grossed out imagining just how slutty this hole really is, imagining you gagging on c-cocks a-a-and tentacles and alien appendages or having your face mashed into every sort of pussy imaginable. B-b-but I'm not."

"I'll tell you a secret, Rick." Morty confides, pushing his fingers in deep and grinning when the tips touch the smooth entrance of his throat. "It turns me on, thinking about what a - what a talented whore you are."

The teen slides his legs out from under himself, leaving him perched on the edge of Rick's cot with his feet on either side of the older man's knees.

And suddenly he pulls his fingers from Rick's mouth, the action startlingly abrupt, and uses the hold he has on Rick's hair to pull his grandfather in and mash his welted cheek against the obvious line of his erection through thin cotton.

"It makes me want t-to use that perfect mouth too." Morty hisses, pushing his hips up with a moan as he rubs his covered cock against Rick's face. "It makes me want to be just - just another dick that you've sucked a-and gagged on. One of fucking many, I'm sure."

Morty's words slide in one of Rick's ears and out the other, he's too busy memorizing the soft pads and raised whorls dragging across his tongue in soft strokes. Rick can't remember the last time he just let himself get _used_ like this and it feels so nice.

And it's practically for a good cause, if he doesn't breathe too heavily on the house of cards this whole fucked up scenario is built on. The edges of his mind start to go soft and foggy, fast enough to set off tiny warning bells in the back of his head, beyond the reach of the whiskey and the white noise of Morty hissing... something, down at him.

Shit, when was the last time he trusted someone that took a swing at him? Even a little? Was it really making that much of a difference, or was Morty- was this something else? It's too much, too fast, fuck he's losing control _again_ , and this is going to end up just as badly as the last time if not worse, because this was supposed to be making it better, supposed to let him show the kid enough ropes to find someone else-

He's yanked out of his spiral, literally, as Morty jams his head into his thigh, the cheap fabric rubbing the abrasions on his face, and suddenly Rick has enough to clarity of mind to understand what Morty's saying.

“C-Come on Rick, show me the galaxy's favorite attraction. Put that mouth to work.”

Rick has a horrible, jolting sense of deja vu. His stomach lurches even as he absently mouths at the outlined heat beneath him, his body operating on autopilot while his brain is stuck on a timeline about three hours back.

_Morty throws the door to his apartment open and practically drags him by his coat to the bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights._

“ _If you're getting a freebie outta this, I'm getting to fuck the Rogue's mouth before you take me apart.”_

_Stripping off his shirt and pants with professional ease, the Morty crawls over him, slamming his palm into Rick's forehead before guiding him down._

“ _Come on, Rick. Put that mouth to work.”_

His breathing is harder now, but it's easy to disguise it as lust, as he pulls at Morty's boxers. He remembers why he's here. He remembers what this is. He still has control of this little lesson, even if he's letting Morty see him getting a taste of his own medicine.

Rick cracks a grin as he tugs the kid's boxers down with his teeth until they settle around around Morty's knees.

“If-if you want me to gag you're about thirty years too late, Morty.”

Running a teasing lick up the base of Morty's cock and swirling his tongue lightly around the crown, he's relieved to see the teen choke a little at the sight.

“Well, maybe thirty-five for you.”

This won't take long. Rick can keep it together, and they'll be better at the end of it.

A smile breaks out across Morty's face at Rick's cheeky reply and it does wonders to put him at ease about the situation.

In the teen’s not so humble opinion, Rick isn't meant to be docile and accepting.

The power Morty feels with control in his hands is spectacular. Swirling through his veins like wax in a lava lamp, the sensation has Morty riding the waves of a unique and potentially addictive high, his mood rising exponentially with every passing second. But that hint of sass, that reminder of who Rick is and what he’s more used to, has Morty able to sink down into it fully and let the calm guide him through.

His movements feel fluid, like confidence has always come naturally to him, and Morty never wants the feeling to end.

Pearly teeth capture the swell of Morty’s bottom lip. Rick looks gorgeous from where he is, teasing the head of his cock with fleeting kitten licks that were nowhere near enough. It’s almost enough to stop his heart and, as Rick's tongue brushes across the small slit at the tip, pulling a gasp from Morty's lips, he can't stop himself from carding his fingers encouragingly through Rick's tempting blue hair.

 _"Fu-u-ck."_ Morty groans, arching his hips up. "Take it."

Rick doesn't seem as into what they’re doing as he did before and, in the back of his head, Morty worries. Maybe he didn’t say the right thing and Rick is just following through, effectively getting him off as some sort of apology for leaving. The thought bums him out but Rick isn't stopping. His grandpa takes part of Morty's length past his lips with ease and, as he tries to choke back a sound of unadulterated enjoyment, the teen reaches out and grabs hold of Rick's shoulder for support.

But something isn't right.

Where he'd expected to find fresh, partially puckered scars or scabbed over nail marks, he touches something tacky. Morty frowns and looks down at his hand, finding his fingertips red with half-dried blood, and then directs his gaze to the back of Rick's shoulder.

There are fresh nail marks there. Morty would be surprised if they're more than a few hours old at most.

The thought of Rick being with somebody else makes Morty’s stomach twist with discomfort. Part of it is due to the simple fact that he’s greedy and possessive, unabashed in his self acknowledgment that he wants Rick all to himself. That’s something Morty is used to ignoring though since he knows the likelihood of Rick being exclusive with him is slim to none. Especially sexually. But there’s another, bigger part that’s bothered by the idea that, while he was freaking out at home, Rick was out getting his dick wet so he didn't have to think about what happened.

It’s then that, under the pressure of uncertainty, mixed emotions, and hurt that Rick would ditch him for sex while he was so confused and upset, Morty started to go soft in Rick's mouth before losing his erection completely.

Humiliation crashes through Morty with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

It isn't the shame that flooded him when he had to ask Rick for a cockring or the embarrassment that plagues him when his stamina fails and he comes too quickly. This is a different kind of shame, the kind that makes him feel startled by its intensity, and, when Rick pulls off of his pathetically soft cock, Morty feels fear in his heart.

The teen looks down between his legs, anxious and panicked as he desperately wills himself to get hard again, terrified about what Rick will say and the various ways he'll tease him and hold it over his head. He's never lost an erection before. Not with Rick and certainly never while Rick was sucking him off. As a result, not only would Rick most likely make fun of him but they'd probably never play this game again. He'd never get to feel the euphoria of having Rick at his mercy again and the thought sends a pang of loss through him almost immediately.

"I..."

Morty pulls his hand free of Rick's hair and holds both hands defensively near his chest, looking down at them to avoid Rick's face while simultaneously ignoring the literal blood on his hands.

"I didn't mean to... That wasn't supposed to happen a-a-and I -- I mean, I was really into it and I'm not sure -- not sure why... I..."

Tongue-tied and at a loss, Morty gives up altogether and stops trying to explain before simply saying, "I didn't mean to. I'm really sorry, Rick," very quietly.

Tucking the teen back in his boxers, Rick rubs at his welted jaw, trying not to sigh audibly. “It's okay, it's- it's been a hell of a few days.”

On any other day his pride might be a little dinged, but this doesn't even rank on his top ten list of ways this 'discussion' could have ended badly. Between blood loss, stress, exhaustion, and the fact that Rick's still noticeably soft, it's not exactly shocking that the kid is having some performance anxiety. Still, Morty's blowing it out of proportion again, looking like he accidentally killed the family dog.

Groaning, Rick pulls himself to his feet and flops down onto the bed beside him, clasping a hand on Morty's shoulder as he goes.

“Jesus, Morty, lighten up. I-I-I'm sure I've pulled whiskey dick on you before, even if I don't remember it. Hell, especially if I don't remember it.”

Morty doesn't say anything, still staring at his hands, but the unconscious way he relaxes slightly into Rick's grip is promising.

Rick does sigh then, fishing beneath him for his abandoned sweater. “Look, can we just skip this part? 'Cause I'm good with that.”

Nodding slightly, the teen stands quickly and starts to make a move towards the door, when Rick reaches out to stop him.

“Come on, Morty. You yelled at me, I yelled at you, y-y-you even got to take a swing at me a couple times. I promise I'll suck your brains out through your dick later if you want, but right now I haven't actually slept in days and, from the looks of you, I'm guessing you haven't either. Am I right?”

Morty nods, the dark circles under his eyes speaking volumes. The last of Rick's adrenaline is fading, and in its place is just a void of exhaustion, covered lightly with a warm blanket of booze.

He shoves his sweater into a ball and tosses it beside the battered pillow. “Well then, I'm really fucking tired and I'd like to take a nap.”

Morty's wrist is too thin beneath his fingers, and he looks astonished as Rick pulls him down onto the cot again, allowing himself to be manipulated into being the little spoon between his grandfather and the wall. Rick flops his head down hard against the pillow and groans at the low light.

“Morty, hit the lights, will you? My hangover's decide to show up early. Or a couple days late, I'm not sure.”

The brunet sits up, pawing at the switch on the wall before tentatively lying back down and burrowing into his makeshift pillow. When his voice comes again, it's small but quiet.

“Rick? C-can we try- I'd like to- to try that again. With you.”

“Sure,” Rick stares at the ceiling as the boy curls into his side. “You might not actually be too terrible at it, either. My jaw is still kind of aching from that second swing.”

Morty beams at the praise and snuggles in just a little closer to Rick.

It feels risky, when he drapes an arm across Rick's stomach, and, after waiting to see if the older man would object, Morty hitches one of his legs over Rick's thigh and slides it between both of his grandpa's. The position feels too close, like something lovers would do instead of something they'd do. Rick isn't pushing him away though, and Morty is too needy to deny himself,  so he tries not to worry and just enjoy himself while he can.

With his head on Rick's chest, curls nestled up under the older man's chin and his ear pressed against bare skin, Morty can hear Rick's heartbeat. It’s reassuring. The repetitive music of the scientist's cardiovascular system is lulling Morty to sleep more surely than the water of the womb and he has no desire to fight against it.

"I liked it. It was a different feeling than when you were in control but I still liked it."

Rick doesn't respond. Morty didn't think he would anyway but, after a moment of quiet, the teen says, "I'm glad you're home."

The statement feels like so much less than how he felt, especially since some of his bigger worries had been Rick being dead, imprisoned, or long gone, but Morty leaves it at that. Less is always more with Rick, especially where sentiment and emotions are concerned.

Instead he just shows those feelings through his actions. He gives Rick's middle a gentle squeeze and nuzzles his cheek against bare skin before falling asleep, totally unaware that Rick was already way ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-Harm Warning: In one scene Morty cuts himself with a razor blade. However this is not out of depression or self-loathing, but reflective of a pattern by a lot of teenagers who self-harm when they discover they have masochistic tendencies. It also serves as grounding technique in this chapter to help him contextualize and understand the events of the previous chapters.
> 
> Thank you everybody for reading! Reviews and feedback as always are treasured.


	3. Disney World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since 'talking about it' went so well, if they're going to try not talking about it, may as well do it at Disney World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry this chapter took so long guys! We have a half a dozen chapters written, and this was honestly the weak link. It took us a lot of time in editing and rewrites, but we're finally happy with it, and hopefully the next chapters should come much more quickly! Thank you for sticking with us, and as always, reviews make our days. - Klax & Clair

Rick notices Morty looming in the doorway to the garage immediately, but he doesn't acknowledge his presence.

The past week he's been keeping them busy with a barrage of adventures every time Morty seeks him out. Most of the suddenly-vital projects have sat on the back burner for months, but Rick is starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel, mixed metaphors aside.

The only trace that their ‘conversation’ had happened after Rick's disappearance are the emails Morty sends him a couple times a day now. Beginner's BDSM guides and 'instructional' porn clips, are forwarded with simple questions about how useful Rick thinks they are.

Morty never brings them up in person, and he seems happy with the terse, one-sentence replies Rick sends back, pointing out the more egregious misinformation and providing new links of his own.

He checks his phone, no new messages since the one Morty sent before school this morning; a clip of a redhead on all fours, moaning as she's belted by a faceless man in a suit. #MrGreyWillSeeYouNow.

Rick felt he had responded to it with considerable restraint under the circumstances.

_She's faking. He's pulling his elbow back halfway through. It’s supposed to pull his punches but it's just giving him less control._

So far all the clips Morty's sent him have been pretty impersonal and featured women heavily. Whatever that means.

When Morty doesn't move for a minute, Rick pushes for the familiar.

“Hey Morty, pass me those pliers would you? Not-not-not the needle-nose, the-the pump pliers.”

Rick's voice startles the teen out of his mental pep talk but, like the subservient and eager to please grandson that he is, Morty’s quick to obey. An absent-minded root around through Rick's toolbox has him finding the pliers his grandpa asked for in moments but, by the time Morty actually hands them to Rick, he’s still no closer to actually broaching the topic he came to the garage to address.

Contrary to popular belief, Morty's not stupid. Not completely stupid, anyway. He's had a feeling that Rick was sidestepping his desire for anything physical between them for a while now. Which Morty is honestly been okay with, since he's been dealing with the mental fallout of what happened between them, too, but he’s tired of it. Even though he’s had to admit that an adventure-based smokescreen is a pretty crafty way to swerve the whole thing and keep things as normal as they can be between them, Morty’s starting to get anxious. Not for sex, necessarily, but for the reassurance it would bring.

With each subsequent distraction, Morty's worry continues to grow. He’s been trying to play it cool but he’s genuinely afraid that something might've been damaged in their relationship that night. Morty worries that they'll never really be the same again, that there really is no going back and maybe it _wasn’t_ worth it, and, more than anything, he wants proof that isn't the case.

"Hey uhh, Rick? I was just wondering if --"

Like clockwork, the older man cuts him off.

"Yeah, Morty, hold on."

The teen stands by like a robot waiting for a purpose, quietly watching Rick work on whatever is occupying his time as he tries, and fails, to not to be impatient or frustrated at Rick’s attempt at another brush-off. After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sound of Rick's tinkering, Morty gathers the courage to try and speak up a second time only to have Rick speak over him again. "I was thinking about jammin' over to the Floopiedoops system for some ice-cream, whatddya say, kid? I heard they got some - some real tasty new flavors. We could probably invite Summer along, keep her from bitching about never being invited or whatever. I was thinking -"

But then it’s Morty's turn to cut Rick off.

"I don't want ice-cream, I want a choice." He says bluntly.

Well, that was somewhat unexpected.

Since the first time they started fooling around, Rick has always offered Morty a choice. What, at first, was a last ditch out to make sure Morty was fully committed to playing with this particular fire, quickly evolved into a set pattern.

Whenever Morty had the courage to come to him, stammering out half-assed innuendos and making an inarticulate pain in the ass out of himself, Rick would give him a choice between sex on Rick's terms, or a platonic consolation prize. It was a fun little game, one they both got into and that Rick, by design, always won. But Rick had always wanted Morty to break the pattern and grow the balls to just tell him what he wanted. Asking for sex from someone who's proven themselves willing and pretty fucking flexible shouldn't be so hard after a certain number of mutual orgasms.

And apparently, he’s getting what he wished for. Morty's voice doesn't shake, and his eyes don't waver as he all but demands another choice.

What, has the little shit developed a kink for binary decision making trees now?

Rick is intrigued, and just shy of impressed, but really not in the mood. Flipping through his silent phone one more time, he wonders if he could find some bullshit ad on Blergslist and pawn it off as a real emergency.

“Well, your choice is either come with me for ice cream or stay here, Morty. If that raises too many existential crises for you, I don't know what to tell ya.”

Rick is deflecting, just like he usually does when he doesn’t want to deal with something. Normally that doesn't really bother Morty. After three years as Rick's companion, he’s pretty used to that sort of behavior, but the fact that Rick is outright breaking a promise he made early on in their sexual relationship while simultaneously treating him like an idiot has the teen's hackles raised.

"That's not what I'm talking about a-a-and you know it, Rick."

Morty crosses his arms over his chest. He’s determined to stay strong and not wimp out. He's let Rick sidetrack him the past four times he approached. Whether that’s because Rick was busy or dealing with an actual multiversal emergency, Morty doesn't actually know or care, but he refuses to wander off with his tail tucked between his legs while Rick is obviously not busy and just trying to avoid dealing with him.

If he ever wants Rick to respect him, or to be able to respect himself, then he needs to learn to stand up for what he wants and not let himself be walked all over or pushed aside. Starting right fucking now.

"You made me a promise wh-when we started this."

Morty nearly flinches when Rick suddenly turns in his chair to look at him. His grandpa's eyes are flat and icy. The closed off chill in Rick’s gaze makes it impossible to tell if the look he’s sending Morty’s way is intentionally being used as a warning to back off or if it’s genuine to such a sharp degree but, to Morty's pride, he manages to keep his spine straight and his voice steady.

"If you don't feel like doing something with -- with me then just say so. Don't throw out some shitty, half-assed smoke screen a-a-and expect me to just go along with it and act like I don't know what's -- what's really going on."

Rick stares at the defensive line of Morty's arms, wrapped firm enough across his chest to fit a straightjacket, and flips the screwdriver in his hand idly over his knuckles.

“So you wanna get treated like an adult, huh, Morty?” Huffing out an amused breath, Rick drops the tool back on the workbench and turns to face the teen again.

“Well being an adult means you have to ask for what you want, not just demand the other person read your goddamn mind.” Rick sneers. “Even your dad gets _real_ specific on his knees when he begs your mom on his birthday.”

Standing, he walks towards Morty, bending over just enough to be a tad demeaning.

“So Morty, you still want me to give you a choice? Or you want to just tell me what you're angling for here?”

The blatant insinuation about his parents sex lives has Morty wanting to both cringe and punch the stupid look off Rick's face. He only ever whips that shit out when he’s trying to get a rise and Morty is more than halfway tempted to give it to him.

But Morty knows he’s right and he isn't willing to back down. Not when he's already come this far.

Morty remains defiant as he looks up into Rick's face. His heart is slamming painfully in his chest, the anxiety caused by conflict and confrontation sending unwanted jolts of adrenaline through his blood stream, but somehow Morty manages to hold eye contact and not look away.

"There's no need for you to read my mind." Morty says patiently, trying to imagine that he’s dealing with an especially ornery child rather than a man that once wiped out an entire universe in a box just to prove a point.

"I've already asked for exactly what I want."

Well, it was worth a shot. Rick sighs in exasperation and straightens up, pinching the bridge of his nose at his oncoming headache.

“Fine, Morty. Whatever you want.”

Apparently what he wants is for Rick to act like he’s in control of this... _thing_ between them again. To give him the illusion of choice while offering him a clear option as a winner. Unless... oh.

Rick looks up, fairly certain he's hit on what Morty wants.

“Do you want me to rope tie you and suspend you from the ceiling so I can fuck you, or do you want me to teach you how to give a proper spanking from over your knee?”

The thrill of victory zipping through Morty’s system faster than electrical signals jumping from one neuron to the next is exceptionally short lived. It falters the moment Rick offers him the second of his two choices and Morty's lips twist into an immediate frown.

That... was different. Very different, and Morty isn't sure how to feel about the sudden change in their offered choice dynamic.

On one hand, both of those options sound pretty fantastic but, in truth, he isn't asking for a choice in the hopes of sex. Sex was only one portion of the pattern-based reassurance he was seeking. If anything, Morty was asking for a choice to try and figure out if everything was okay between them. All things considered, Morty is pretty sure he has his answer.

Genuinely curious, he asks, "What about the other option?"

Christ, Morty is a picky bitch.

“What the fuck else do you want, Morty?” Rick scowls, “An all-expenses paid trip to Disneyworld?”

Morty brightens almost immediately and a huge smile splits his face from what feels like ear to ear.

That. That's what he wants. In the face of so many new things, Morty just wants a solid connection to what they had before, a quiet acknowledgement that not _everything_ has changed after that first night, and Morty doesn't hesitate to let Rick know that as well.

"That!" He says excitedly, bouncing on his toes even though Rick still kind of looks like he’s about to blow a head gasket. "I choose that one."

"I've always wanted to go to Disneyworld! Especially if you're buying."

Rick is dumbfounded, and it probably shows.

“Seriously? Disneyworld? The one in Florida?”

Morty nods enthusiastically, the dorkiest grin Rick has ever seen still plastered to his face like drywall.

“Not Six Flags? Cedar Point? Radicchio Prime? Anywhere with halfway decent roller coasters?”

The head shakes like a bobblehead now, and Jesus, the kid is actually bouncing on his toes.

Only Morty would take an offer to beat Rick Sanchez’s ass cherry red or get fucked six ways from Sunday and find a way to turn it into the most unimaginative cancer kid's Make-a-Wish adventure. Biting back a barb about Morty's definition of being treated like an adult involving a photograph with Minnie Mouse, Rick reaches for his portal gun.

“All right, Morty. If you wanna go to the hackiest place on Earth, fine. But we're doing it my way. Which means we're starting with Epcot and I'm gonna drink my way around the world at least twice before we touch the Magic Kingdom.”

Opening a portal, he gestures through it, “Come on, if I'm paying we're not shelling out five hundred bucks for passes.”

 

* * *

 

Rick is drunk. Probably drunker than usual considering the fact that he’s surrounded by screaming kids. Not to mention the overprotective parents that'd sooner throw Walt Disney himself under a bus than admit that the snot-nosed brat spilling melted snow cone syrup all over some poor guy's shoes is anything less than a perfect angel.

When Rick said they'd go around the world twice before even coming close to the Magic Kingdom, Morty hadn't really known what he meant. He’d never been to Disneyworld, or Disneyland for that matter, and he didn’t really have any idea about what sorts of things could be found there aside from the costumed characters and all the rides. As it turned out, there were quite a few places in the park - if the busy, overly massive expanse of space could actually be called such a thing - that didn’t really seem all that Disney related. In Epcot, the second of four other specialized parks at Disneyworld, there was a metaphorical trip around the cultural world complete with food and drinks from various countries. From what Morty got out of Rick’s rambled off explanation, the place was divided into two sections, Future World and the World Showcase, the second of which being where all the food and drinks were. The whole place seemed dedicated to the celebration of human achievement, technological innovation and international culture Rick said, and it held a more serious note than the rest of the park. Future World was all sort of clustered around a big, glass looking sphere that Rick eventually informed him was actually called a _geodesic sphere_ named Spaceship Earth that served as the icon of Epcot. The World Showcase, which Morty found slightly more exciting than all the more serious Epcot attractions, ended up being a two or three mile walk around a man-made lagoon with eleven different cultural stops.

He'd laughed when they arrived at the first stop, a representation of Mexico, and Rick immediately ordered a margarita but, as it turned out, that’s where the easy-going enjoyment ended. They didn’t stay in any one of the eleven locations for long, not longer than it took for Rick to order and finish another drink anyway, and by the time they reached China, Morty was felt the disconnect between them full force. He’d chosen Disneyworld as a way to get back on track. It was supposed to be some stupid, no-stakes adventure, one that would make things more normal between them after their fight and what’d come after, but Morty just felt more alone than ever.

Rick is drinking like a fish, as per usual, complaining about the fact that he just paid close to fifteen dollars for some drink called _The Frozen Elephant,_ but they weren’t talking. Not really. There’s the occasional handful of comments being tossed back and forth between them, little stuff that doesn’t mean anything, but there’s still a barrier. It reminds Morty a bit of his parents, the way they sit at the dinner table, chatting casually and sticking to politely distanced topics after a big fight. The comparison hurts and Morty tries not to let it get to him as he attempts to enjoy himself - a venture that he finds only mildly successful.

Morty wants to talk about it, to just pull Rick aside and hash out whatever beef is between them so that they can enjoy the day the way they would’ve on any other throwaway adventure, but Morty knows that won’t work. Talking about feelings, despite being a fairly productive communication avenue for most people, just isn’t Rick’s style and Morty knows it. Probably better than most. He knows any attempt to do so will end in a fight or some rude dismissal and that the chasm between them will continue to grow. So Morty does the only thing he can possibly do: he tries to ignore it and have a good time with a slapped on display of sunny behavior.

He smiles and laughs the entire time they wander around the lagoon. He convinces himself that he’s amused and nothing else as he listens to Rick ramble on about the vaguely racist bits of Epcot. He rolls his eyes fondly and doesn’t voice the fact that he already knows when Rick waves his hand and talks about Walt Disney being anti-semitic. He nods in understanding as he would’ve done on any other adventure when Rick starts yammering about things he could've improved and made better or the uselessness of certain outdated concepts. Morty doesn’t even have to pretend to be entertained as he listens to Rick complain about all the shit wrong with Disney in general, tickled pink by the old man’s rants about how most of their fairytales were all rip offs from the grisly stories that originated in Europe and probably would've made way better movies.

To say he’s having a fairly decent time, even a _good time,_ wouldn’t be completely inaccurate, but it wouldn’t be entirely truthful either.

At least Rick isn’t pitching a fit, Morty reasons with himself.

His grandpa isn't usually one to be dragged around, especially to places he doesn’t want to be, but, after walking around the World Showcase a second time and earning himself some rather impressed looks from the employees who recognized him from his first trip, he seems to be making the most of it. He isn't griping nearly as much as he could be, and Morty has a feeling that has to do with a mix between the abundance of alcohol and the fact that Morty hasn’t dragged him off to some dark corner for either a quick fuck or some poorly executed attempt at talking about their problems.

Unspoken friction or no, Disneyworld is exactly what Morty thought it would be and even though it really isn’t his scene, he isn't disappointed by his decision to spend the day there rather than being tied up or paddling Rick's ass. It’s loud, over-crowded, cram-packed with more humans than he could remember being around in a long time, and yet still better than the emotional clusterfuck he probably would’ve brought down on himself by choosing one of the other two options while his relationship with Rick was still so fucked up.

Even though he feels a bit like a liar in regards to the display, Morty smiles to himself and takes another bite of his cotton candy, humming through sweet, sugary bliss as it melts on his tongue. They haven’t even left Epcot yet, even though it’s already been a few hours, and, after whittling Rick into going on the Mission: SPACE ride again even though they've done it once already, Morty is dragging Rick along by the hand with wide eyes and trying not to think about how ridiculous he feels doing so when there’s so much more important shit to be worrying about.

To be honest, Morty isn't exactly sure when he'd taken Rick's hand. He can remember the older man making a rude comment some time ago about not wanting to lose his brat in the land of brats but, since then, he hasn't really complained and Morty is enjoying the simple contact immensely. It makes him feel like things aren’t _totally_ screwed up between them. Rick might not want to sort their shit out just yet but he obviously doesn’t have a problem touching him or letting himself be touched and Morty is grateful for that reprieve. Most of the day has felt like an act, like only thirty percent of everything he’s doing is accurate enough to be taken at face value, and the contact between them makes it feel like less of a facade.

Upon finishing their lengthy, convoluted tour of Epcot, they skip the walk back to the tram station and portal straight into the Animal Kingdom in front of the Tree of Life. A performer in a Rafiki mask seems to be singing the opening song to 'The Lion King' on repeat, and as Morty starts looking a little too intently at the signs for 'Pandora: The World of Avatar', Rick is acutely aware that they have entered the alcohol free parts of the park. This place doesn't close for another five hours too, meaning he'd better make that flask last as long as possible.

Tugging Morty by the hand he refuses to give back is less effective than hauling him by the elbow, but it seems to do the trick.

“Hey, Morty. Let's go see the Komodo Dragons. I can get you real dinosaurs any day, and in reality those- those bioluminescent plants? They just transmit a fungus that rots your skin off. It's-it's nasty shit, Morty.”

Despite being somewhat bummed out by Rick's less than subtle attempt to direct him away from the Avatar exhibit, Morty lets himself be tugged away with a laugh.

"All - all the best shit is the most dangerous a-a-and unpleasant." Morty offhandedly agrees, looking back at the Tree of Life one last time before directing his attention towards Rick. "But couldn't you just, y'know, take me to see Komodo Dragons in the Galapagos Islands or something? I'm sure that'd be way cooler th-than seeing one in captivity."

Rick bites down a retort to Morty's distracted comment. If the best shit really was dangerous and unpleasant then why the fuck was he shelling out twenty dollars for a margarita in a hundred and ten degree heat at the heart of America's scrotum instead of one of the other options he'd given the kid?

“Well, you're the one who wanted Walt Dismal World, Morty. Don't blame me for your pubescent tastes.”

He's still dragging Morty across the continent bridge towards Asia, scowling vaguely at any tourists that get too close when he speaks back up. “And by the way, where the fuck do you think the Galapagos Islands are, Morty? They're off the coast of Ecuador, _c_ _abrón._ Komodo Dragons are from _Indonesia_ , next to Australia and all the other weird shit that can kill you by looking at you funny.”

They finally reach the line for the Asian exhibit, and Rick scans the counterfeit VIP FastPasses he whipped up for them.

“Darwin wrote about the fucking finches and tortoises, not giant venomous lizards that eat three year olds.”

"And I'm sure I'd know that if you ever let me go to school, Rick." Morty retorts with a cheeky grin. "C'mon! Don't be such a sour puss!"

Morty bounces beside his grandpa as they make their way further into the Royal Forest, his mood a little more genuinely happy, even under the persistence of Rick's cynical frown.

"We never go to places here on Earth. A-a-and I know there's probably at least ten other places in the known multiverse that you could've taken me that are way more fun and probably have an open bar but we're in Disney World, Rick! For people who- who can't go off world this is one of the best places on Earth!"

Looking up at Rick as they move through a rocky pit type area and approach a gorgeous, rushing waterfall surrounded by leaves and vines, Morty squeezes his grandpa's hand and offers him another smile. Even though he knows Rick probably won't be swayed by something so stupidly sentimental.

"You're the one who picked this place, Rick." Morty reminds his companion with a laugh. "You could've said anything but you had to say Disney World.”

Morty shook his head and gave Rick’s hand another squeeze. “Just let me enjoy this, Rick, a-a-and when we get home I'll make you a sandwich and bring you a beer and you can bang away at whatever you were working on in the- in the garage while I hand you tools. Okay?"

Rick snorts. “You're gonna be a good little wife one day, Morty.”

The Komodo Dragons aren't particularly active in the heat, just laying on rocks in the sun, and the sign says their next feeding isn't scheduled for a few hours. The rest of the exhibit is a bit of a bust too, birds and monkeys not really living up to some of the other stuff they've run screaming from in the wild.

Eventually they find themselves wandering back around the Tree of Life again, and Rick pulls out the portal gun.

“So you wanna check out the waterpark? Or skip the urine and chlorine cocktail and just head back home?”

"Oh no, Rick, I don't think so."

Morty chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest with a cocky smirk. The unspoken tension is still there, lingering between them like an unpleasant smell that just won’t fade away, but it’s less stifling than when they first started and Morty isn’t ready to give up quite yet. It’s probably foolish, but he wants to believe that if he holds out just a little longer that something will crack and things will even out between them. So, even though he’s hot and tired and honestly ready to say fuck it and call it a day, Morty doesn’t cave and take the opportunity to escape.

"Did you forget? We haven't been to the Magic Kingdom yet! You can't go to Disney World without seeing all the- all the characters Rick."

"Plus," He says, smile growing that much wider as his voice takes on a sarcastic and borderline condescending tone, "What sort of grandson would I be if I deprived my dear, old grandfather of an experience like this? I want us to- to cherish our time together a-and remember this moment fondly."

Morty finally loses composure at the look of mild disgust on Rick’s face, dissolving into a rude series of giggles before hooking his arm with Rick's.

"Wh-whadda say, Granddaddy? Help me find all the princesses?"

Rick groans loudly, but doesn’t shake the little shit off his arm. “This is elder abuse, you know. I-I-I can report you for this.”

Snapping his fingers, Morty is still sniggering. “Chop-chop, portal to princesses, let's go.”

Opening a portal to Main Street U.S.A., they saunter through, immediately spotting a bunch of children crowding around a princess in a green dress and some ridiculous red wig.

“There,” Rick gestures, watching Morty's eyes light up as he takes in their new surroundings. “You've received medals of valor and personally signed death warrants from royalty across the multiverse, why do we have to go chasing after a bunch of 19 year old Julliard dropouts who’ve hit their peak?”

"Because it's on my bucket list." Morty states matter-of-factly, only to turn around and add, "But also because this was my choice a-a-and I want to make sure that it's worth giving up the other two things."

Morty takes a risk and offers Rick a smile, acting like this is something they openly talk about, like it isn't something neither of them know how to deal with and have, up until today, been avoiding. Like it isn’t the reason for the underlying tension between them.

He’s been determined to stay sunny and just make the most of their trip thus far but Morty is tired of pretending.

"Although..." He muses, his heart picking up speed as he attempts to be bold. "I'm not sure I'd be calling this place th-the most magical place on Earth if I was suspended from your ceiling o-o-or if I had you over my knee. Who knows, maybe this place has one hell of a ride somewhere tucked away."

It takes every ounce of will he has not to look up at Rick and gage the effectiveness of his words but Morty uses the sacrifice wisely and snickers to himself as he walks calmly over to Merida, asking her for a selfie and trying not to think about how badly he wants to look back at Rick and wink.

Rick stares at that perky little ass as it fucking sashays away. So that’s how they're gonna play it, huh? All right, that is a game Rick is happy to join.

Pulling up the park on his phone, he has a plan by the time Morty walks back over, clearly waiting to see if Rick has some kind of response.

“Listen, Morty, there's something you need to understand,” Rick says seriously. “Bucket lists are stupid. They just prepare you for death, and let you put shit off until you're too old to do it properly.”

Morty blinks, clearly not expecting that.

“But, if you're going to commit to doing something, you're not going to half-ass it,” he continues. “Even if it's stupid.”

Throwing up a two dimensional holographic map of the park from one of his watches, Rick marks out a dozen places.

“There are eleven princesses in the park today, and you've gotten a picture with one of them so far. The park closes in three hours, but more than half of them leave for the evening parade before that. So we have about ninety minutes to cover seven miles, in this precise pattern, ac-accounting for their scheduled breaks.”

Mouth a firm line, Morty stares at the map, memorizing the path and the locations on the map with the eyes of a practiced tactician.

“Good,” Rick closes the map. “Now start running, because we're not using the portal gun either, Morty.”

The teenager bolts down main street towards Cinderella's castle. Rick grins and takes off after him. That little punk has no idea what Rick has in store for him.

 

* * *

 

Morty's lungs are burning.

Running through an ever growing crowd of people - a majority of which are children - in the Florida heat isn't like running for his life during his adventures with Rick. It’s far, far more difficult.

Despite knowing that Rick gets away with an obscene amount of rudeness on a daily basis, Morty isn't like him. He feels the need to toss out an apology to every other kid he jostles more than just casually and, while that isn't too hard, it feels like the more he tries to avoid the stupidly small humans, the more he bumps into them.

But Morty isn't willing to give up.

He’s running, top speed, through the streets of Disney World, remembering the layout Rick provided without too much hassle, but by the second princess Morty is already starting to think the whole thing is overrated. His pictures are gonna suck. He’s gonna end up red-faced and sweaty in every single one of them and Morty is already kicking himself in the ass for not taking one of the other options.

Regardless of the fact that he knows fucking around with Rick would’ve resulted in much more trouble than it was probably worth, Morty still wants to believe that, if he had the chance to go back, knowing what he knows now, he'd happily take Rick over his knee and paddle his grandpa's bony ass until he couldn't even lift his arm instead of subjecting himself to this unique brand of hell on Earth.

Morty groans and, nearly tripping up the steps to the third castle, he rapidly starts to search for Princess Ariel. Like Cinderella and Aurora before her, she’s easy to spot, surrounded by little star-eyed girls, and as he waits a second for the crowd to thin, Morty takes the opportunity to breathe.

He hunches over, grasping both knees, and he takes in deep lungfuls of air as slowly as he can manage, trying to give himself a break. The moment he starts to calm down though, Ariel is free and he quickly abandons rest in favor of grabbing his selfie before she goes on break or gets stormed again.

This one is less sweaty than his picture with Aurora and Morty is grateful as he waves goodbye and starts trotting down the steps, looking for his next direction as well as waiting for Rick to make himself known.

“Jeez, Morty,” Rick says as Morty finally puffs up to stop number five: Tiana. “You gotta stop looking so flushed around these princesses, or they'll kick you out of here for being a pervert. You're already not exactly the target demographic for this, you know.”

Morty glares at him while trying to catch his breath. Rick is leaning back on a wonderfully shady bench and going to town on an ice cream cone. He’s ignored the doubling back zigzag needed to catch Aurora, and managed to get here just a few minutes earlier at a leisurely stroll.

Princess Tiana doesn't have much of a line, thanks in part to good old-fashioned racism, but because of her low popularity she also doesn't have a FastPass line, and it looked like she was spending a good deal more time with each person that came up to see her.

Morty jumps to the back of the line and glares at Rick, who just responds by smirking and spreading his legs a little wider, laying into his ice cream cone with more tongue than is probably necessary. The teen is anxiously checking the time on his phone every few seconds, and smiling nervously at the people who pass him.

Reaching for his phone, Rick sends him him a text.

_You really do look like a little perv with your face all flushed. I had this gorgeous red rope picked out I bet would’ve matched perfectly, but I guess we'll never know now, will we?_

Morty's head spins around to stare at Rick as soon as the alert comes through, just in time to catch Rick licking a few stray drops of melted vanilla soft serve from his fingers with a damn near innocent expression.

Looking down at his phone, Morty is forced to acknowledge that there’s times that he’s positive he hates Rick. Sometimes it’s impossible to doubt that he hates him with the raw, unadulterated intensity of a thousand blistering suns going supernova simultaneously.

And now is one of those times.

But more than that, Morty hates himself for being predictable and playing along. Just as Rick knew he would.

_Never say never. We could talk about it. Y'know, when we're not at fucking Disney World. By the way, could you be anymore obvious? An ice cream cone? Really Rick?_

What Morty doesn’t say, and he’s sure that Rick knows anyway, is that it’s working. Even from all the way over where he is, Morty can see Rick enjoying his cool, sweet treat without a care in the world. He’s lapping at it slowly, like nothing could possibly bother him, like it’s the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. Morty’s imagination is supplying him with all sorts of delicious alternatives, mental images of Rick lapping at things far less G-rated zipping through his mind and Morty wishes he'd stop.

Unwanted arousal starts to pool in Morty's belly and he grits his teeth.

This is the worst. Rick is the worst. And suddenly he has a burning question that he knows would probably make things far worse for him.

Quickly texting Rick once more he asks, _If I find all the princesses in time do I get a prize?_

Rick lets the messages go unread, phone visibly untouched on the bench beside him while he deliberately works at his half-gone cone. When Morty looks like he's going to grind his teeth out of his skull, still two people from the front of the line, Rick flips it over and responds.

_This is your bucket list item, remember? That's prize enough. Don't be a greedy slut._

Morty's furiously typed response gets cut off as he's called to the front. Rick jams the remaining cone in his mouth and shoots off another message just as Morty pulls up his phone to ask for a selfie.

_Of course since you ARE a greedy slut, you could always ask me real nicely._

Morty chokes, his eyes going wide and startled, and, when the princess in front of him speaks up, Morty gives an audible squeak.

His blush becomes darker than ever as he stammers out a request for a selfie, fumbling with his phone to get the camera on as she eyes him a bit suspiciously, her smile just a bit too wide. Jesus, Rick is right. He _is_ a pervert. If he wasn't then he wouldn't have replied to Rick's message at all.

Morty snaps his selfie, his face just as red as the others for entirely different reasons, and he walks away with no small amount of awkwardness. He could walk up to Rick but he doesn't. He knows it wouldn't do any good. So, rather than fighting it, Morty goes right along and jumps headlong into the game they’re apparently playing.

Texting Rick, he says, _Grandpa, can I please have a prize if I manage to get a picture with all the princesses in time? Please?_

Morty hesitates and then quickly adds, _Pretty please with my slutty ass right on bottom?_ before sending the text and stuffing his phone in his pocket, already running for the next castle before the phone ever buzzes in Rick's lap.

Morty's phone stays ominously silent as he gets pictures from Rapunzel and Pocahontas, but he makes it to Elsa & Anna's Frozen Adventure a couple minutes ahead of schedule. This two-for-one should put him firmly in the lead to complete the challenge, and Rick isn't having that at all.

Even if it is a twofer with a FastPass lane, there are more screaming brats here than Rick has seen in the rest of the park put together, all wearing stupidly hot dresses for the weather and crying with frustration. Rick grabs Morty's arm as he heads for the line, and drags him around the corner of the frozen chocolate chalet.

Morty's eyes are bright with the heat and adrenaline, and Rick shoves a bottle of water at him.

“Drink this, I'm not having you pass out in fucking Florida.”

Suspicion successfully overcome by thirst, Morty chugs the entire bottle in less than a minute. He makes a move towards the line for Frozen but, before he can do so, Rick crowds him back against the fake wooden exterior of the hut and looms over him in a way that way that always makes Morty’s jeans just a little tighter than is socially acceptable.

“Now Morty, don't run off, we haven't discussed what kind of prize you want yet.”

Morty looks up at Rick through his lashes. His eyes are wide with surprise, cheeks pink with both exertion and an unfortunate amount of arousal.

Rick is just so fucking close.

Even though Rick hasn't been drinking since before they entered the Animal Kingdom, Morty can still smell it on him -- like the tequila from that last margarita is seeping from his pores. Alcoholism shouldn't smell so tempting. It makes Morty's mouth water, makes him want to get up close and personal as he steals a taste. He wonders if it’d be as good off Rick’s skin as it was from his glass.

The teen's head is swimming and he feels momentarily lost as he looks up into the rich, cornflower blue of Rick's eyes. He's seen so many things in those eyes. Anger, frustration, boredom... Desire. So much desire, and Morty is under their spell.

"M-my prize..."

When Rick smiles, the expression is distinctly shark-like. It feels dangerous, almost mean, and Morty's heart starts to race.

"I want you." Morty croaks. "Here, at Disney World."

The teen reaches out and takes hold of the lapel of Rick's coat. He wants to pull him closer but knows it wouldn't be appropriate. Even with how far away he feels, Morty can still smell popcorn. He can hear the laughter of small children and the chatter of humored adults, and he knows he can’t step any closer without raising some eyebrows.

Morty lowers his voice and gives Rick exactly what he seems to want.

"I want you to take me somewhere private a-and stroke m-m-my cock until I come i-in your hand."

Morty captures his lip between his teeth and when Rick's pupils expand he feels like the most powerful being in the universe.

"Let me fuck your fist." He whispers.

Rick groans dramatically, his knees buckling a little for effect as Morty pulls back quickly, the shadow of someone passing by a few feet away falling over their sunny nook, barely out of sight.

Leaning in further, Rick can nearly taste the sweat curling Morty's hair as he hisses in his ear.

“Fuck, Morty. You're always such a slut for danger, aren't you?”

A school group files past, conversing loudly in Mandarin, and coming to a halt just in front of the Chocolate chalet. Morty freezes. They're clearly visible, and there's very little explaining that could account for their positions, or the obvious arousal they're both sporting, so why the _fuck_ is Rick getting on his knees?!

Breathing hard, Morty's hands slam flatly against the wood panels of the concession stand, unbelieving as Rick looks up at him, licking his lips mere inches from the straining bulge in his jeans. Jesus Christ, he isn't really going to-

Rick sets to work retying Morty's shoelaces, smiling brightly at one of the girls in the school group, who giggles behind her hand before turning back to her friends. Weighing the likelihood that any of the preteens are fluent enough to understand him at this distance, he starts speaking up at Morty in a conversational but decently loud tone.

“You know, if that's your real Disney World fantasy we could make it happen now, Morty. J-just another dirty old man taking advantage of an innocent young thing in the bushes. This place is practically built for it. Where perverts' dreams come true.”

Squeezing Morty's ankle as he finishes his last knot, Rick drags his hand up Morty's leg as he stands, lab coat falling just so to hide the quick squeeze he gives the teen's trapped cock.

“Of course you haven't been an innocent young thing for a long time, but I'm sure we could pretend long enough to have you coming all over my hand.”

Morty stands there for a long second, gaping like a fish as he tries to wrap his head around what just happened, but his brain simply won't reboot. He can practically see the Apple rainbow wheel spinning in front of his eyes, around and around, but nothing will process.

"I-I-I -- I didn't, I mean, y-y-you didn't h-have to..." Morty stammers, trying to look anywhere but at Rick's smirking face or the pack of school girls that are still lingering around for the show.

Morty goes to take a step to the side and put some much needed distance between himself and Rick but, when his step is suddenly jerked to a halt, Morty looked down in confusion.

His fucking shoelaces are tied together.

The expression on Morty's face is nearly betrayed when he looks up and, upon seeing Rick's smile become decidedly not innocent, Morty finally discovers what those blue eyes were glowing with more than any real sort of desire. It was mischief. And cunning, and the teen instantly realizes his mistake.

Outraged, he hisses, "You're such a fucking cheater!"

In seconds Morty is awkwardly trying to get himself untied, raising his foot up as high as he can and leaning over all half-hunched to make a grab for the lace. But Rick is a cock and they were in a tight, frustrating little knot. The boy makes an angry sound and drops down to his ass, hurriedly prying the laces apart with his fingernails as best as he can.

"You're gonna pay for this,” he angrily promises.

Morty leaps to his feet the moment both shoes are re-tied and, in a flash, he’s off. He rushes back towards castle number what-the-fuck-ever and bullies his way to the front of the line, earning more than a few glares from angry parents and cries of unhappy kids, but Anna and Elsa treat him the same as the other little girls. They rush him right along, submitting for the selfie, and the moment he has both of his pictures he’s running again.

There’s no telling how much time he's wasted. He could just look at his phone but, having to worry about all the people he’s dodging, Morty’s almost positive that he'd really slam into one of them. Or worse, drop his phone and break it, therefore ending the princess scavenger hunt.

Morty grits his teeth and pushes himself faster. He tries to imagine the time he and Rick were forced to outrun a pack of Swillbols in the Deranian Cluster a few years back. Rick's panicked, furious voice rings through his ears like the ghost of his own personal drill sergeant.

_Run, Morty! If they catch us we're fu-uuurp-fucked! Do you want your ballsack hollowed out and used as a decorative candy bowl, Morty? Do you?! No? Then pick up the goddamn pace!_

Chest heaving and legs on fire, Morty's feet pound up the steps towards Snow White's castle. He doesn't even care this time when he approaches her, winded and entirely out of breath. He can't even ask for a selfie properly, he just huffs and puffs his way through the hand motions until she finally gets it and poses with him for a quick second.

Morty snaps the picture in a hurry and throws out an incredibly grateful ‘thank you’ as he rushes away, working his way deeper and deeper into the Magic Kingdom.

Rick watches as Morty hauls ass at an impressive clip, skidding to a halt in front of the line for Mulan. Rick had considered beating him and holding up the line there with a dramatic diatribe about McNugget Sauce, but ultimately this was much better.

Shooting a quick text to Morty, he snickers as he sees the teen spin around as the phone buzzes in his pants, hyper-aware and paranoid, searching for Rick in the crowd.

_20 Minutes, 3 princesses to go, Morty. Tick-Tock._

Morty's eyes narrow, and he strikes a pose with Mulan, snapping a photo and waving goodbye, typing a response furiously as he jogs off.

_Two princesses. Fuck you Rick._

Smirking, Rick sends a reply before pocketing his phone and turning his attention back to the 'task' at hand.

_Only if you win._

Morty breathes deeply, pushing through the cramps in his legs and the burn in his chest. All that’s left iss Jasmine and Belle. He can do this. He is _going_ to do this.

Turning the corner for Jasmine's garden, Morty's heart sinks. A small crowd is dispersing, muttering annoyances. Princess Jasmine's pavilion sits empty.

No. No no no no no no _no_ he isn't too late, he still has ten minutes! Fuck, this isn't fair!

Shocked and angry, Morty stands frozen for a second, before a sound from garden to his right distracts him. Suspicion rising, he turns around a rose bush and stops short.

Rick's smirking mug stares back at him, his arm wound around Jasmine's waist as she presses against his front, arms wound around his neck as she mouths kisses up his jaw.

Eyes glinting, Rick blows him a kiss before drawling, “Fuck yeah, baby, just like that.”

Jesus fucking Christ, talk about cheating. Rick is a sonofabitch, plain and simple, and Morty is more determined than ever to win.

It’s that determination that gives Morty the ability to think outside the box.

Grinning maniacally, Morty races over to where Princess Jasmine is busy fucking over Aladdin as she wraps herself shamelessly around Rick. Morty couldn’t have cared less though. Rick has slept with actual princesses before and Morty is positive that she’s just a means to an end. Though, if Rick really does wanna fuck her in the Magical Kingdom than who was he to argue? He’d probably do it too.

"Excuse me!" Morty calls out, brighter than usual as he cock-blocks Rick and puts the fire of his plan out with a bucket of water. "Hi! You look busy but I really need a selfie with you!"

Jasmine looks beyond mortified but Morty doesn't give a shit. He turns right around and captures a selfie of himself with a thumbs up, Rick and Jasmine in the background. By the time he turns back around Jasmine is trying to bury her face in Rick's neck, obviously well aware that she's been busted and probably thinking about the consequences of her actions.

But, the petty professional little bitch that he is, Morty can't help but grind a little salt in the wound.

"Thanks for getting Jasmine away from the crowd so I could get a good pic, Grandpa Rick!" He calls out, trotting backwards with a wave before addressing the princess, "G-good luck with him! M-m-my grandma says he's a - a real fox in bed and he's got super strong swimmers! She got pregnant with my mom even with th-th-the condom! He's also a bit of a - of an old fashioned guy! Likes to snag birth control pills and really roll the dice! Who doesn't want a little risk in their l-life? Maybe you'll knock up a princess after all, Rick!"

Morty turns tail and flees, cackling as he races away, but the moment the last castle fades away Morty is focused and on to the next one.

The teen races towards Belle's castle, searching for her everywhere as he practically counts down the seconds in his head but, as he skids around the corner and spots the empty line, he starts to panic. There’s no Belle. There’s no fucking Belle!

Morty really start panicking, desperately looking everywhere for the final princess only to feel his heart sink when a portal suddenly opens beside him and Rick steps out of it with a haughty, cat-that-got-the-canary grin.

He’s out of time and one princess short.

 

* * *

 

Rick is still laughing a little and rubbing his ribs where Jasmine had gotten a good shot in as he steps through the portal, ready to congratulate the little shit on a job well done. But Morty is standing in the open, looking defeatedly at an empty meet and greet line, with a sign declaring that Belle had left to prepare for the evening parade.

Well, shit. That hadn't been part of the plan.

Clapping a hand on Morty's shoulder he tones down the smirk a little. “Oof, tough break, Morty.”

The teen droops at the reminder. Not only has he lost the game, and therefore his prize, but Belle was also his favorite princess. Seeing as how she was last, he'd hoped that he could get the shitty selfie first, just to secure his victory, and that he could get a second one before she left for the parade.

But now he'd get neither. And he'd wasted his opportunity for sex early in the day when he chose Disney World over suspended bondage or being able to beat Rick's ass.

 _Happiest Place on Earth, my ass._ Morty thought to himself.

"It's fine." Morty grumbles. "Can't win 'em all, I guess."

Rick grimaces at the slope of the Morty's shoulders. Fuck, this was supposed to have been a treat for the kid and he's managed to end the day on a bummer anyway. Morty is flipping through the selfies on his phone he'd managed to collect listlessly.

Taking a swing from his flask for the first time in a couple of hours, Rick tries to cheer the kid up.

“You know Jasmine is pro-probably flipping her shit right now waiting for that picture to hit Instagram.”

“I don't want to blackmail a princess, Rick,” Morty says, sounding tired.

“Ugh, fine. Well come on then,” he says, heading past the velvet rope for the back wall of the castle.

Morty looks up, confused at the lack of a portal. “We're not going home yet?”

“Nah,” Rick belches, finding the edges of a hidden door in the flourishes of the wallpaper. “Ten out of eleven is pretty good, Morty. You’ve earned yourself a consolation prize.”

Pulling out his gun, Rick fries the key-card lock with a single shot, kicking it open to reveal a flight of stairs leading down into a gray concrete hall.

The teen frowns in confusion, following after Rick with a healthy amount of suspicion in the forefront of his mind.

When it comes to Rick, the phrase, 'if it's too good to be true, it probably is' is a motto to live by. There’s always some catch, always some hidden, usually unpleasant, agenda just waiting in the wings, and even though Morty is all but drooling at the thought of getting some sort of reward, consolation prizes aren’t Rick's style. He's been privy to more than one drunken, scathing rant about how the problem with people today was that they always expected a trophy just for playing along even if they didn't win.

Rick didn't believe in participation trophies.

So it isn't all that surprising that Morty is somewhat hesitant as he follows after Rick into what is, essentially, a creepy, concrete tunnel system under a kid magnet that even the owner of Neverland Ranch can’t compete with.

"Rick?" Morty says cautiously. "What are we doing here?"

"I dunno, Morty, what _are_ we doing here?"

The teen opens his mouth to offer up an annoyed reply at Rick's question-with-a-question response only to blurt out something completely different when they suddenly turn a corner.

"There's Princess Belle!"

The princess in question jumps in startled alarm and spins to look at them, more than a little surprised, and Morty smile widens. Maybe he'd get to cross the princess thing off his bucket list after all.

Morty immediately bounds away from Rick without warning and darts over to the princess in the yellow ball gown, blushing a bit when she smiles at him. The expression looks kinda tired, still happy but not as sunny as it could be. Morty doesn’t fault her. Her shift had probably been long and she was on her way to a parade. The life of a princess was never easy.

"Hi!" Morty says excitedly. "I know that you have somewhere to be b-b-but you're my favorite princess a-and this is probably the only time I'll be able to come to Disney World. Can I please get a quick selfie with you? If not it's cool, I know y-y-you're busy and that I'm probably not supposed to be back here."

A pleased sound escapes Morty lips when she quickly agrees to a picture. Morty trots over to her and snags the opportunity, capturing some good photos and even getting a kiss on the cheek for his trouble before she wishes him well and turns to leave.

Which, of course, makes Morty blush even more than he already was.

The teen's smile is right on the verge of radiant as he walks back over to Rick. He feels like he’s on cloud nine and, without even stopping to think about it, he takes the older man's hand and laces their fingers together.

"Thanks for helping me find the last princess, Rick" Morty says, looking up at his grandpa with that impossible smile that somehow gets a few degrees happier when he sees Rick's face.

“Mmmhmmm. Now, you ready to run, Morty? Because your precious princess just tipped off Mickey's Jackbooted thugs.”

Nodding down the hall, Rick draws Morty's attention to the swat-style security team jogging in their direction.

“Can't we just portal out?” The teen asks, looking resigned.

“Life without stakes is for pussies, Morty. Run!”

The ensuing chase through the labyrinth of corridors that stretch beneath the park certainly isn’t the scariest thing they’ve ever run from, but it turns out that Disney goons were well-organized enough to give the Gromflamites some pointers on tactics. When they find themselves cornered half an hour later it's still enough to get the adrenaline pumping and the hair raised on the back of their necks.

They're in the middle of a warehouse half the size of a football field, stuffed wall-to-wall with racks of costumes and uniforms. Security teams have sealed the exits, and are systematically sweeping the aisles, closing in while they huddle in the massive tulle of ballgown skirts. Which is when Morty notices Rick's fingers unfastening the buttons of his jeans.

He almost lets out a yelp, but Rick slams his other hand across his mouth, layering himself against the teen's back and letting Morty feel his half-erect cock against his back.

“Shhhh. Gotta- gotta be quiet, Morty. You wanted grandpa to get you off at Disneyworld? Well this is your chance.”

Fear of discovery and copious amounts of adrenaline pour through Morty's system, his pulse deafening in his ears.

It feels like their pursuers are painfully close but Morty is already hard in his pants. The thrill of the chase isn't lost on him and, feeling Rick's own hardness against his back alongside his grandpa's well-versed fingers fluidly lowering his zip, Morty just gets that much more excited.

The teen nods eagerly, offering his consent even though he knows Rick doesn’t need it. The state of his erection probably told the older man all he needed to know, it usually did, and Morty bites the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound when Rick's hand slides inside his pants and cups him through his boxers.

The scientist's lips are dangerously close to Morty's ear, teasing him with every breath, and when the older man quietly starts to murmur low enough that even he has to strain to hear, Morty only gets that much harder.

"A danger slut like you? I'm not surprised that you're already hard and ready to come in my hand, Morty."

A flicker of shame burns through Morty in an instant and he can tell the moment Rick zeros in on it. The older man's thumb finds the head of his cock through his underwear in seconds and Morty shudders when Rick starts brushing back and forth against it, forcing him to feel the wetness there.

He’s leaking and ashamed and Rick knows it. He’s taking full advantage of it.

Morty closes his eyes and leans his head back against Rick's shoulder. He whines softly behind his grandpa's hand and pushes his hips forward a little, blushing when Rick snickers silently behind him.

"Too fuckin' easy."

The teen's breathing speeds up and he reaches down to wrap his fingers around Rick's wrist. He doesn't try to make him go any faster or any slower, he just holds on, trembling in Rick's arms as arousal and terror twine intimately together in his heart to the beat of synchronized footfalls just outside the gown.

The footsteps come to a pause, black combat boots just visible on the concrete beneath pink taffeta as the guard checks in on his walkie-talkie.

“If you come right now, even if you managed to keep quiet, you'd probably spray come all over his boot,” Rick murmurs. “How's that for a way to get caught, huh?”

Morty whimpers against the palm on his mouth, squirming in his grandpa's grasp, torn between rubbing back against Rick and trying not to thrust forward, certain he'd stop everything if he did.

Rick's hand speeds up, his thumb dipping on random strokes to smear pre-cum from the slit around the crown, enjoying the way the kid's teeth nearly chatter beneath his hand every time he does.

The guard receives some unintelligible commands from the walkie, and moves on, and Rick rips his hand from Morty's mouth, letting the kid gasp lungfuls of the close air.

“You- you're gonna come for me, aren't you, Morty. Like the good little whore you are, I can tell, you're fucking desperate.”

Nodding furiously, Morty's hand tightens slightly around Rick's wrist, a low whine building in his throat.

Rick waits until he can see the teen's hips start to stutter, tiny thrusts making their way past his resolve, seconds away from spraying his release across the inside of pretty pink ball gown.

The look of absolute betrayal on Morty's face when Rick lets go sends a rush of blood to his cock so fast it makes his head spin.

“Well ten princesses only gets you 91% of the way to coming all over my fist,” Rick hisses, “So you better give me a good fucking reason to finish right now. But either way you aren't going to be coming again for a week, at least.”

A soft whine escapes Morty's lips and he turns his face to Rick's neck, pressing his forehead to the warm column as his cock continues to twitch against his belly. Rick's denial and his subsequent demand for the teen to make him an offer has a small bead of fresh pre-come rolling down the length of his shaft. Morty shivers at the sensation and swallows heavily as he throws away his pride.

"P-please, Rick." Morty pleads, his voice punched out and needy as he turns his face up and nuzzles his partner pathetically just below his ear. "I-I'll let you put me in a - in a cock cage until you're ready for me again. A-a-and I'll... I'll..."

Morty bites his lip, trying to come up with something he can offer but all he can think about is his cock. The need to come is riding him hard and, even though Rick had already taken his hand away, Morty is positive that his balls are already drawn up and ready to shoot. It doesn’t help that Morty knows this will be his last chance and that, if he comes before Rick gives him permission however long from now, he'll be severely punished.

"Please," He chokes out, "Let me finish. I'll clear my Morty adventure stamp card a-a-and I know you've still got that transfer thingie, Rick." Morty whispers became more urgent, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks down his own body and watchs Rick trail a single fingertip up his length from base to tip. The teen's hips jerk forward against his will, all the muscles in his core tight as a spring. "You gave m-m-my dad that hangover from hell last St. Patrick's day. I'll take the hangover from your next three benders. I swear, Rick, j-j-just- just please."

Rick doesn't seem entirely convinced and Morty can't tell if he’s genuinely uninterested in his offer or if he’s holding back in the hopes of something more. He's never been able to see past Rick's poker face, at least not when he’s as distracted as he is right now. It makes the teen crazy, makes him desperate to push the limit and earn the prize at the end through sheer, brazen courage.

Or maybe it’s just stupidity.

Morty pants as quietly as he can and strains to give the lobe of Rick's ear the gentlest tug as he lays his most desperate hand on the table.

"I'll be loud. I-I won't hold back when I come a-a-and I'll let them catch us j-just so they know who I belong to. Let me come, Rick, please, please, _please_."

“Morty, Morty, _Morty_...” Rick says, voice a little louder now, and dripping with disappointment.

“What kind of weak tea offer is that, huh?” Morty sobs silently, shaking his head in denial, even as Rick continues to drag the pad of his finger up and down his weeping cock.

“First of all,” he says patiently, “You just want a cock cage so you'll be less tempted to come without permission. Which entirely defeats the point of having one, doesn't it?”

There's no response from the teen beneath him, so Rick wraps his hand around his cock again and squeezes firmly.

“I said, _doesn't it?”_

“Yes, yes!” Morty bursts out, nodding desperately. Rick genially loosens his grip and begins to stroke him lightly again.

“Second, you know that contract you made me sign overwrites any changes to the Morty Adventure Card. Plus,” Rick snorts. “You've only got two stamps on that thing right now.”

“And finally, we both know that you're the one who gets off on letting the universe know what a pathetic little cockslut you are for your grandpa. So the only thing you've really offered me for _my_ benefit is a hangover cure that's mildly more convenient and fun than a fistful of pills.” Morty is starting to shake under his fingers again, barely choking back tears.

“So here's my incredibly generous counteroffer...” Rick suddenly grabs Morty's hips and throws the boy into the aisle on his hands and knees, dick still straining from his open pants.

Burying his fingers roughly in Morty's hair, Rick growls. “You're going to beg, _loudly,_ for your granddaddy to paint your face with his come while all these fucking rent-a-cops watch. And then you're going to fucking scream for them when I jerk you off. And when we get home, you're going to take five of my hangovers... and-and I'm breaking out the Viklexian Gin tonight, Morty. I deserve it after this fucking place.”

Licking a stripe up Morty's face, he grins as he hears heavy footsteps starting to head back in their direction.

“Better decide fast, Morty. I can portal us out of here right now.”

Terror courses through Morty's small frame, wracking him with shivers as the reality of gettng caught crashes down on him all at once. They’re at fucking _Disney World_. They’re family and Morty is underage. They are in a literal family friendly place where kids are expected to run and scream and play all day. If they got caught here for real they'll never be able to come back. They'll be labeled as sex offenders, probably sued, and his parents will kick Rick out the second they get the call.

Logically, Morty knows that won't happen. He knows Rick can get them out and that he won't let anything bad happen to them, but Morty isn't running on logic. There is nothing but the flesh eating butterflies in his stomach and the slam of his heart and the blue ball fucking ache in his cock.

Morty shifts onto his back and looks up at Rick. The teen's eyes are wild, scared and humiliated, and _so fucking turned on_. Morty doesn't know how he ever managed to stop fucking Rick, how he manages to go a single second of his day without his cock being hard and Rick looking down at him like something he's just scraped off the bottom of his boot.

That mean, I've-got-you-now grin shouldn't make his cock jump but it does.

He’s tempted to safeword and have Rick portal them out. The result of doing so would probably be far more lenient than just asking to escape. Morty knows Rick wouldn't be so generous a second time, not when he’s already giving him the opportunity to come after the loss of the princess hunt, but if he safewords then the game will automatically be over and there won't be any consequences to face. Up to, and potentially including, Rick's orgasm ban. And if he doesn't, if he just begs to leave, he'll be desperate to touch his dick for days because he pussied out and couldn’t take going the distance.

The first option feels like the far more favorable of the two, but Morty doesn't feel like it’s honest. He won't be stopping because he’s uncomfortable or feeling unsafe or any of that. It'll be doing it because he’s afraid and can't play by the rules, which is very different.

_They're getting closer._

Morty looks anxiously down the aisle and then back up at Rick. His lips quiver as he opens his mouth and tries to just push the pleas for orgasm past his lips. But he’s getting stage fright and his throat is tight. Blood rushes through his body, the sound amplified inside his ears, and Morty can barely hear himself think over it, even though his thoughts are practically a scream.

_Debase yourself, you fucking coward! Just say it! You know it's all true. You want them to see you! You want every person alive to know what a filthy cock slut you are for Rick's dick anyway so why are you even holding back?_

He isn't ready. He isn't ready and he knows it and even though he trusts Rick, Morty just can't bring himself to do it. No matter how much his dick is cursing his entire existence.

"Rick, portal us home. Please, p-please don't let them see us." Morty says, having to force the harsh whisper out around a lump that’s risen in his throat - no doubt it’s his heart trying to climb out of his mouth. It feels three sizes too big, like his pulse should be measurable on the Richter scale, but Morty accepts defeat with what little dignity he has left.

Rick has a portal forming on the ground under Morty's back before the second 'please' has made its way past his lips. Jumping through after him, the cement floor of the warehouse seals shut just as a pair of security personnel turn the corner of their abandoned aisle.

The wind is knocked out of Morty's lungs as he lands flat on the floor of the garage, Rick stepping through to tower over him again, easily. That crazed look is still in Rick's eyes, and Morty is forcibly reminded of the last time they'd been in this position, Rick babbling about their future as he lost control of his limbs and bladder.

Rick leans down and grabs Morty by the front of his shirt, dragging him up into a furious and wholly unexpected kiss. Moaning, Morty steadies his hand on the arms of Rick's lab coat, still feeling like he's seconds from creaming his jeans and really not wanting to know what the punishment for that would look like now he's taken the high and dry road.

Rick's tongue is possessive, licking over every one of Morty's teeth like he's planning to cast them from memory, and it's a dizzying single point of contact, even as Morty craves to feel Rick's hands on his skin instead of just the stiff synthetic of his sleeves.

Pulling away, Rick nips at his upper lip as he goes, smile feral and surprisingly pleased.

“So you just wanna be Grandpa's good boy for now, eh baby? Not ready to let the rest of the galaxy know what a gorgeous little whore you are when you moan my name on your knees?”

Planting a last, almost gentle kiss on Morty's lips, Rick drops him back to the ground and surveys the mess beneath him.

“Don't worry, Morty. We'll get you there soon enough.”

Turning on his heel, Rick heads for the door to the house. He pauses at the doorknob, his voice darker than it had been a moment before as he administers a warning.

“Oh, and Morty? If I even see you shake your dick one time too many when you piss for the next week, you are going to be in a world of hurt.”

Morty nods dumbly in understanding, realizing a second too late that Rick's back is to him and that the older man probably can't see it. Though, there are times Morty swears Rick really does have eyes in the back of his head so, in all likelihood, he probably doesn't need to say anything.

But he does anyway.

"I'll be good, Rick, I promise."

Rick seems to stand at the door a second longer than necessary and Morty wonders if the scientist is gauging the authenticity of his promise. Morty doesn't really blame him. His dick is still hard and demanding attention and Morty knows that his own personal sense of self control is probably less than zero. He meant what he said though, he plans to be good and follow Rick's rules, and Rick must've picked up on that because a second later he nods as well and slips out of the garage.

Finally alone, Morty goes limp against the concrete floor with an unhappy groan.

Despite knowing that it was for the best, Morty regrets his decision not to come immensely. He honestly regrets a lot of things. He regrets pestering Rick for a choice, and rising to the bait and letting their outing get sexual once they hit the Magic Kingdom, and he especially regrets letting Rick herd him in long enough to tie his shoelaces together but, most of all, he regrets pussying out and not just letting the guards catch them. He knows the next week - perhaps even longer if Rick is feeling particularly sadistic - is going to be hell and he tries not to think about it. Which, of course, only makes him think about it more.

After a while though his erection finally starts to fade. Its absence leaves him with a major case of blue balls, and Morty groans as he pushes himself to his feet, intent on finding Rick. It isn't hard, the older man is sitting on the couch watching TV, looking like the picture perfect definition of ease as he does, and Morty takes it upon himself to add to that picture by grabbing a beer from the fridge and handing it to his grandpa before plopping down on the couch.

Morty feels hollowed out. Now that he isn't immersed in the lizard part of his brain - used only for fighting, fucking, and surviving - he’s weak with exhaustion, both physically and mentally. Those seven miles are certainly taking their toll. Not to mention all the walking he did at Epcot. Morty’s legs give a weak throb the moment he thinks about it and, after taking a moment to consider the time and realize that they’ll have the house to themselves for another twenty or thirty minutes, Morty goes ahead and just flops down on his side, laying his head in Rick's lap.

Anxiety wish-washes away inside of the teen. Part of him really wants to apologize to Rick for not being able to meet his expectations. It seems dumb in retrospect to have given up, but another part recognizes how ridiculous that was and doesn't feel the need to say sorry at all. He'd done his best and that's all he could offer, even if it wasn't quite enough this time.

Instead, Morty just rubs his cheek against Rick's thigh a little and lets his eyes droop, feeling the strain of the day and the fading adrenaline sap whatever was left of his strength.

Rick flips channels idly, eventually settling on an infomercial for the newest variant of plumbus. Throwing back his beer, he lets a hand come down gently on Morty's head, tousling his hair before curling a lip in disgust.

“Jesus Morty, you're-you're soaked in sweat. You need to take a fucking shower.”

A faint groan of protest is all that greets him as the brunet buries his face deeper into Rick's thigh. Wincing slightly, Rick shifts his weight away from Morty's face as subtly as he can. The few minutes of separation they'd had for cool down had helped, but Rick isn't sure an hour or two would have done enough to dull the memory of Morty's earnest, strung-out promise to be good. It was all he could do to wrench open the door to the house and walk through, and not turn around to fuck Morty dry on the oil-stained concrete of the garage floor.

This was good though. This little game was something they were used to, even if they were playing by a different rule book after that night in Rick's room. A week to reinforce both of their boundaries and test the limits of this new side of their relationship. And speaking of which, the kid probably did deserve some recognition for playing along so well.

Combing his fingers through wet curls, Rick keeps his eyes on use #223 for a new and improved plumbus, declogging a household drain, while he speaks.

“You did good today, Morty. Even managed to make Disneyworld almost interesting, didn't we.”

There's no response, but the kid's breathing doesn't seem like he's fallen asleep just yet, so Rick keeps going, dropping his hand to rub small circles down the length of Morty's back, gratified at the way the muscles relax almost instantly under his touch.

“Lemme tell you, I didn't know you could run so well with a stiffy in those tight-ass jeans.” Rick’s hand reaches the bottom of Morty's back and skims the top of his jeans before slipping under his shirt to dig his thumb into the knots running up the teen's back.

“I thought you wore those just to put your grandpa into an early grave, but apparently not.”

Morty moans as Rick's clever fingers manage to find and release a point he didn't even know hurt at the base of his spine, quickly turning into a boneless lump as his grandfather manages to take him apart with a single hand.

Sliding his palm along the boy's side, Rick smirks a little as he sees Morty's hips start to roll unconsciously into the couch cushions. Slipping his hand further, he wraps it around the boy's chest and brings two fingers up to tease at sensitive nipple.

“Hey Morty,” he says, voice dripping with honey. “Where's my sandwich?”

Morty hums in response, soaking up Rick's attention like a desert finally blessed with rainfall as he lets himself be soothed down from a ragged edge. Rick's touches are so simple but every touch to his curls, every forced out knot, every tiny tease, feels so fucking weighted in Morty's mind and he nearly welcomes the distraction when Rick suddenly pinches his nipple with a bit more force.

"Oww, Rick! What?"

His grandpa sneers and Morty glares at him, reaching up to rub at his abused little peak for a second as he tries to ignore the thrill of arousal that shoots straight to his groin when Rick gets mean without warning.

"W-why'd you pinch me, whaddya want?"

Rick's sneer intensifies.

"Well, for starters, I want you to get your sweat soaked head off my lap and stop staining my - euuurp - my pants. And second, I want that sandwich you promised earlier, chop chop, Morty."

The task feels Herculean.

The simple act of even thinking about standing up has Morty wishing that he would've just gone straight upstairs to his room but, knowing Rick, the older man would've called in that promise sooner rather than later and suddenly he’s glad he doesn't have to trek back down all those stairs just to make food for his incredibly lazy grandfather.

Grumbling, Morty murmurs a partially annoyed, "Yeah, yeah, I'm going," and stands from the couch, making his way into the kitchen and retrieving all the things necessary to make sandwiches with the quickness of an overly lazy sloth.

Morty doesn't really mind though. Rick frequently forgets to eat and, if his mom hadn't insisted on family dinners almost every night, Morty is positive that Rick would be content to get all his calories from fermented fruit, potatoes and God knows what else. That and sweets.

The teen rolls his eyes and sets about making food for his mentor. It isn't anything fancy, just turkey and cheese on slightly fancier than usual white bread, but Morty takes the time to make it better quality. He makes sure to spread the mayo right to the edges of the bread, uses the last of the good turkey breast his dad explicitly said he was saving for himself, adds lettuce even though he doesn't have to, and smears mustard across the bread rather than just leaving it a messy squiggle. He cuts it diagonally, just like Rick likes, and adds chips to the plate. Morty smiles down at his work and retrieves another beer from the fridge for Rick and delivers with a sort of much needed calmness.

The moment he hands the plate to Rick and sets the bottle on the coffee table, his mom walks in the door, announcing herself to anybody that might been home. Her presence isn't unwanted but, with how bone-tired and needy he still feels, Morty doesn’t think it'd be a good idea to be around Rick while she’s in the house. Not when he keeps wanting to touch and lie all over Rick as much as the older man will allow.

Instead, he opts to remove himself and recover on his own.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." Morty tells his grandpa, aware that he doesn't need to narrate his life but still wanting to let him know. "I might take a nap a-after. If you need me for an adventure though, just holler."

Rick grunts in acknowledgment, already shoving half the sandwich down his throat and setting the DVR to 'The Life & Times of Mrs. Pancakes'.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Morty trudges up the staircase with the thousand-yard stare of a combat veteran. Reaching the top, the boy practically falls through the door to the bathroom, closing it gently behind him.

Munching on a fistful of chips, Rick nods in acknowledgment as Beth settles in an armchair with a book and a glass of wine. The shower starts, and Rick keeps an ear out for any heavy thuds. 'Slipped and fell in the bathtub' is a pretty shitty line to fill out on a Morty Replacement Coupon.

He vaguely considers making his way upstairs and slipping into the bathroom behind Morty, getting a little too handsy on the pretense of keeping him upright, but ultimately dismisses it. The kid's had enough for today, and frankly, given what Rick has planned for the next few days, he'll need the time to decompress.

Settling further into the couch, Rick reaches for the second beer with satisfaction. This is going to be a very long week for Morty, and he fully intends to enjoy every minute.


End file.
